A MAN I CAN TRUST
by Arianna18
Summary: Set early in the series Hardcastle sends McCormick out on a dangerous mission.


**A MAN I CAN TRUST**

_by Arianna_

_For Wendy, who asked for a long h/c – hope this is what you wanted!_

_Thanks for your very generous donation to the STAR for BRIAN fund!_

_And for your generosity in giving me the go-ahead to share your story with everyone else!_

Determined to be cheerful, telling himself that even he-man pirates had to occasionally swab the decks, Mark whistled a lively sea shanty while he dutifully washed the kitchen floor. He hadn't known what to expect when Hardcastle had laid the 'deal' on him two months ago, and was surprised to find himself mowing lawns that went on forever, trimming shrubs that grew as soon as he turned his back, and becoming a pool boy – something that had _never_ been on his 'what I want to be when I grow up' list. But, hey, it was better than prison, right? Yeah. A lot better. There was fresh air and an ocean view, the privacy of his own little house – hey, if it was good enough for a visiting president or two, it was good enough for him. And then some.

The bodyguard/sidekick, 'just call me, Tonto' part of the 'deal' was all he'd thought he'd signed on for and that, in his view, was a more than fair exchange of his labor for freedom-of-a-sort. Just how many guys would be willing to be threatened, beat up and even shot at just to keep a retired Superior Court Judge happy? But said retired Superior Court Judge, Milton C. Hardcastle, known by the not always affectionate nickname of 'Hardcase' – it all depended on whether one was a cop or a con – had very different ideas about what was fair. He evidently thought 'fair' meant something akin to forced labor or slavery.

Mark grimaced at his thoughts as he rinsed the mop in the pail and bent to wring it out. Griping about the situation wouldn't make him feel any better about his unspecified term of servitude. The first few months really hadn't been all that bad. The cases, well, they were all pretty interesting, even fun, in a way. Made him feel good to help catch really bad guys, like the slimy bastard, Martin Cody, who'd killed Flip Johnson. Getting that turkey had made him feel _real_ good. And at least the yard and pool brigade kept him in shape and he got a good tan out of it.

But he'd never expected to end up a maid of all work.

Shifting the pail, moving away from the door to the hall, he applied himself to another section of the floor.

Not that this was Sarah's fault or anything. She couldn't help it if her sister had gotten sick and needed her to move back to San Francisco. Besides, she'd been getting a little long in the tooth to be doing all this work, anyway. Being there for her sister wouldn't be a holiday, but it had to be less physically demanding than keeping this huge house clean and dusted, not to mention doing the laundry and shopping, and all the cooking for His Honor. Still, there'd been tears in her eyes the day she'd left and Mark could understand it had been hard for her to go. This had been her home, too, for a lot of years. But, still, Mark was glad she had finally gotten an excuse to retire honorably, without having to somehow feel she was letting the Judge down.

Nor was Sarah the only one who had been close to tears that day. Hardcastle had been doing a fair amount of suspicious sniffling and rubbing at his nose, and his voice had been downright husky when he'd awkwardly hugged and said good-bye to the woman at the airport. Mark had been amazed by the emotion he was seeing, at first, anyway. But then he'd thought about how Hardcase had lost his wife and only son, and realized that seeing Sarah go would be, in some ways, like losing the last of his family. Mark knew what it felt like to lose family, how much that hurt, and how the hurt never really ever went away. In those moments, he'd felt bad for Hardcastle and doubted there was anything worse than losing a child or a beloved spouse.

The real surprise for Mark was how sorry _he'd_ been to see Sarah leave and how much _he_ missed her. Oh, not because this used to be her job. Sarah was a real character, a one-of-a-kind original, and he'd gotten a kick out of her eccentric outspokenness. Fiercely loyal to the Judge, she was also astute and, in her own bristly way, kind. Mark hadn't known a whole lot of kindness in his life. Well, actually, he hadn't known much loyalty, either. He'd come to like and respect her … even secretly thought of her as a kind of proxy grandmother who scolded him when he was bad but made his favorite cookies anyway, something else he'd never really known. And he'd sure appreciated how she'd run interference with Hardcase for him, when she thought the Judge was being unreasonable. Now, it was just him and Hardcastle, and they sure seemed to rub each other the wrong way. Made for a lot of tension that he didn't know how to make any better – well, not without a complete character makeover, and that sure wasn't in the cards for either him or Hardcase.

"McCormick! You in here?" Hardcastle shouted as he slammed open the door and surged into the kitchen – only to slip on the wet floor.

Mark lunged to catch the Judge's arm to keep him from falling and inadvertently knocked over the pail that was between them, splashing water all over the place – including all over Hardcastle's pants and running shoes.

"Ah, geez," Hardcase yelled, jerking away from Mark's grip, "look at the mess you made! Dammit, McCormick, can't you even wash a simple floor without causing a major disaster!"

"Me?" Mark squeaked in self-defense. "I'm not the one who came barreling in here and nearly took a header. Oh, no, uh, uh," he went on, jerking his thumb toward his chest, "I'm the one who just saved you from breaking a hip or something."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hardcastle snapped. "You didn't save me from anything – you nearly drowned me!" He grimaced as he lifted one shoe and shook off the sudsy water. "And I think you ruined these shoes," he complained. "Gonna have to take the cost of replacing them outta your allowance."

"Oh, for God's sake," Mark sniped, now seriously annoyed. "Those sneakers are only about fifty years old. 'Bout time you got a new pair. Besides, they could use a little soap and water to make them smell better."

"You saying I stink?" Hardcase growled menacingly.

"If the shoe fits," Mark rejoined with an unrepentant shrug.

"Now you listen here, you young punk," Hardcastle yelled furiously, "You need to start watching that mouth of yours. I've just about had it with you, you know. And I don't have to put up with you. I'm doing you a favor, here, which you don't seem to properly appreciate."

Mark opened his mouth to retort and then closed it with a snap. What was he going to say? _Go ahead and send me back to prison?_ Yeah, like _that _would be a smart comeback. Clenching his jaw, he took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. Swallowing his annoyance, doing his best to speak with a civil tone, he asked, "Why were you looking for me, Judge? Was there something you wanted?"

Blinking as if nonplussed by the change in tone and conversational direction, Hardcastle rubbed his mouth. "Yeah," he said, also sounding more restrained, "yeah, I want to fill you in on a new case." Waving his hand at the floor, his tone hardening again into censure, he directed, "Clean up this mess and then come to the den."

"Aye, aye, sir," Mark replied with a crisp salute marred by the fact that he banged his head with the mop handle that was in his hand.

"Idiot," Hardcastle grunted and rolled his eyes. Impatiently waving off Mark's antics, he turned and disappeared through the door. "Hurry it up!" he bellowed, his voice retreating down the hall. "I haven't got all day, you know!"

"I know, I know," Mark muttered to himself as he quickly cleaned up the excess water on the floor and wrung out the mop. "Crime waits upon no man, all the thousands of cops in this city aren't enough to protect the innocent or catch the bad guys, and the Lone Ranger really needs to charge off on Silver to save the day."

Dumping the pail in the sink and then rinsing off the mop, he set both outside the door to dry in the fresh air and sunlight. Sighing as he came back inside, he sternly told himself that he had a pretty good deal here, all things considered. The Judge gave him a bit of rope, and had from the beginning, like turning him loose to race back from Vegas to make his parole appointment. So what if Hardcase had nothing but contempt for him and didn't really trust him in any way that mattered? That bit of rope was really just a test to see if he'd hang himself by trying to go on the run, and Mark knew it. Well, he wasn't that stupid, thank you very much, but it was nice to not have to be under supervision all the damned time. And he couldn't help it if old J.J. had been a sleazy jerk, abusing the same chance and making the Judge even more wary and expecting of betrayal, but he did have to live with the fallout of that. Might not be fair, but when had life ever been fair?

Wasn't like there was any particular reason the Judge should respect him, or show him consideration beyond giving him a decent roof over his head and putting food in his mouth. He was a hired hand, one that was there on sufferance, and that's just the way it was.

Maybe he wouldn't mind the contempt so much if … well, if he wasn't coming to respect the Judge and even actually starting to like the old geezer. Hardcastle was a straight shooter, said what he meant, did what he promised, and had a hell of sense of humor. The truth was, much as he hated to admit it, Mark had already seen enough of the guy to know Hardcase was the best man, the best person, he'd ever known. And it hurt, more than it should probably, that the Judge really didn't think much of him and only expected the worst from him. Sure, maybe he hadn't amounted to much in his life, at least not yet. But, hell, he really wasn't a bad guy. He did his best and was basically honest. And he didn't kick dogs or pick wings off flies. Sighing again as he ambled down the hall, Mark had to admit that he did have a smart mouth – he'd learned a long time ago to use humor to express and dispel anger, tension or fear, to just get along. Sure seemed the strategy wasn't doing him much good here, though. Wryly, he eyed the soaked sneakers by the closet door and shook his head. Seemed he wasn't much of a housekeeper, either.

Wistfully, Mark wondered if he'd ever measure up; ever be good enough to meet Hardcastle's expectations.

He seriously doubted it.

Oh, well, all the Judge really did was yell, and that wasn't so bad. Helluva lot better than being locked down behind bars, afraid to turn your back, knowing you were trapped and there was no way out. And, sure, Hardcase made regular threats about sending him back up the river if he didn't toe the line but, since Mark had no intention of screwing-up, the threats didn't bother him much. Oh, and of course, Hardcastle put him in life-threatening situations on practically a weekly basis – but hey, when compared to life and the possibility of sudden death in the big house, that was a draw, and the accommodations and food were a whole lot better at Gulls Way. Besides, the guy played a mean game of pickup, and he took as good as he got. So, on balance, Mark had no doubts about the fact that he was way ahead in the scheme of things, better off in a lot of ways than he'd been for years.

Taking a deep breath, Mark lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders as he walked into the lion's den.

o0o

Never happy about being kept waiting when he wanted to get on with things, Hardcastle was behind the desk, drumming his fingertips on a closed manila file. He gave Mark a flat look as he sauntered in and draped himself over the nearby chair, making himself at home, and Milt wondered if the kid was up to what was needed. Sniffing, Milt opened the file and thought about the last few months. So far, at least, McCormick hadn't disappointed him. In fact, the kid had come through in some pretty tough spots, proving he could think on his feet and he wasn't a coward. Nor had he taken off when he'd had the chance, more than one chance, if it came to that. Oh, he'd pulled some damn fool stunts, but … never for his own gain. Since he'd gotten out of prison, always, always, when he got into trouble, it seemed it was because he was trying to help a friend. Might not be the brightest bulb in the lot but at least his motivations were okay. Mark wasn't a self-serving sociopath like J.J. Beal, that was for sure. Milt didn't particularly trust him, but then, he didn't actually mistrust him either. The jury was still out. Nodding to himself, Hardcastle decided McCormick could handle the assignment without screwing it up entirely; and besides, he'd keep the kid on a short leash.

"Okay, listen up; here's the situation," the Judge said, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, and planting a scowl on his face to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say so the kid would pay attention and understand what he'd be getting into. "We've got a rash of execution-style murders of homeless people and prostitutes in a seedy section of Hollywood, off the main drag in the back alleys around some old warehouses and abandoned buildings." He pulled a map of the area showing the locations of the murders from the file and shoved it across the desk. "There isn't anything to link these victims together except where they were known to hang out – which was all on the same corners, panhandling or trying to turn tricks, or in the same back alleys and abandoned buildings when they were looking for a place to crash. You with me so far, sport?"

"How many murders?" Mark asked as he nodded and glanced at the map before replacing it on the desk.

"Three in the last two days, two winos and a prostitute, and another prostitute last week. The last one was male," Hardcastle told him, shaking his head. "The trash that did this probably thinks nobody'll care, ya know?" he went on, thumping a finger on photos in the file. "But these people were already down on their luck, an' they sure in hell didn't need to be blown away for their trouble. Anyway, I hear there are rumors in the same general area about some new designer drug being cooked up that will soon hit the streets." Milton shrugged. "The police think they're dealing with two separate scenarios here, but I think it may all be the same case." Reaching down, he picked up a photo and flicked it across the desk toward Mark, who leaned forward to pick it up.

"And who might this upstanding citizen be?" McCormick asked with a grimace as he studied a guy in his late twenties or early thirties in a sleeveless black t-shirt, with slicked back hair. He was slouching against a dirty brick wall, his arms crossed, his expression insolent, and a prominent tattoo of a dragon was clearly visible on his bare upper left arm. "He's got dead eyes," Mark added with a shudder.

"Funny you should say that. That's Mickey Di Angelo, better known in the area as 'The Angel of Death'.

Mark's brows disappeared under his curls. "Oh. Nice."

"Uh huh," Hardcastle grunted. "Kid was born bad. He's the leader of the Dragons – has been for years – the gang that controls that neighborhood. They've got their mitts on everything down there: prostitution, selling illegal arms, drugs, you name it, but he's still basically just a hustler."

"Has good old Mickey ever done any time? I mean, if he's into all this stuff, somebody had to get something on him at some point," Mark said, a frown stealing over his face. "He's into some pretty heavy stuff, even if it is just 'in the neighborhood' and, uh, 'small time'."

Sighing, Hardcastle shook his head. "The kid's bad, not stupid. He's the brains of the outfit, an' he's always got somebody else to do the dirty work. I've come close to nailing him a couple times," Milt told him, disgusted to have never been able to put the punk behind bars, "but he always managed to slip through my fingers. He's got everyone around him so scared, nobody has ever informed against him or implicated him in any action."

Mark looked at the photo again and nodded. "Yeah, I can see how that might be the case," he allowed, his expression grim as he put the picture back on the desk. "So, where're you going with this, Judge?"

"I think Mickey is trying to break into the big time and has set up a drug lab to cook his own stuff so he can be the provider and not just the middle man. That's where the really big bucks are. An' I think these victims maybe saw or heard something that wasn't good for their health, if you catch my drift."

"So he had them off'ed." Mark nodded soberly. "Makes sense. But I can also see why the cops might be having trouble proving anything here. It's all speculation."

"Right. Well, that's where you come in," Milton replied with what he hoped was an engaging and encouraging grin. "You're gonna go undercover down there an' put the pieces together."

For a long moment, Mark just gaped at him, and then he straightened in his chair, his posture tense. "I'm gonna what?" he challenged.

"Move into the neighborhood, hang around the same street corners, see what you can see, pickup what people are saying," Milt clarified. "You know, be my eyes and ears on the ground."

"Hang around … you mean make like some homeless guy? Sleep on the streets?" Mark exclaimed, looking dumbfounded. "Because, even for you, Hardcase, I draw the line at turning tricks – that's just not my thing, you know?"

Again Hardcastle shrugged. "Works for me, but I kinda hope you'll be able to work your way into a job as an enforcer or maybe a driver."

Holding up his hands, McCormick protested, "Wait a minute. Just wait a minute. What makes you think they won't just blow me away, too, huh? And why aren't the cops staking the place out or putting someone undercover down there?"

"Like I say, they think they've got separate situations going on," Hardcastle replied, trying to remain patient. "Besides, these streets kids are savvy; they'd spot a cop in under two minutes. Now, you on the other hand, you've got the right references, been known to hang around with the right people. You know – at Clarksville and San Quentin. Mickey's likely to be impressed with your resume."

"Oh, hey, that's just great," Mark growled. "And where will you be while I'm roaming the streets aspiring to be a hitman?"

"Oh, I'll be around …" Milt replied, waving his hand in the air.

"Around," Mark echoed hollowly. "You mean I'm going to be pretty much on my own down there, and I'll call in when I get the chance."

"Now you're cookin'!" Hardcastle exclaimed, pleased that the kid was putting it together.

His face empty of expression, Mark sank back in his chair; resting his arms along the sides, he gripped the ends of the armrests and shook his head. "That's the craziest, dumb-ass plan I've ever heard," he observed, his tone flat. "First of all, what's to keep old Mickey from telling his guys to off me, too? And second of all, I'm an ex-con – the cops and the parole board won't be happy with me fraternizing with, uh, such 'questionable' associates."

"Ah, you won't get killed. You're too valuable a potential asset, right? An' I'll take care of the rest of it," Hardcastle replied, blithely waving off the concerns. "I'll make sure the cops know what's going down here, and so long as you're under my judicial stay, your parole officer knows you're acting on my say-so."

"And, third, I'm gonna have to carry to be convincing – and that's enough to get me thrown back in the slammer."

Milt scowled at that, and his jaw tightened. But the kid had a point. "Okay," he nodded, if reluctantly, reaching into his desk drawer to pull out a pistol and a box of ammunition. "I'll square that downtown, too."

Mark looked at the weapon, and swallowed hard. Then his eyes lifted to meet Hardcastle's. "You actually trust me to do this?"

"Trust you? What's to trust?" Hardcastle retorted. "Not like you're likely to take-off. Where're ya gonna go? And like you said, you don't keep your nose clean and play this straight, there'll be a ton of reasons to send you back up the river."

Mark's gaze dropped, and silence fell between them as he frowned, thinking it through.

"So, you in?" Milt pushed.

The muscle in McCormick's jaw twitched, but he nodded. "Hey, I'm yours to command, right? Not like I've got much of a choice here, is there?" he asked, sounding oddly sad. Before Milt could protest, Mark straightened in the chair and went on, "Here's how it's going to go, just in case anyone checks, okay – or in case The Angel has contacts inside the PD."

When Hardcastle opened his mouth to argue any such possibility, Mark held up a hand. "Hear me out. Nobody is as good as you say this guy is. Unless he's getting tipped off, there's no way he could cover his tracks when he's into this much dirt. So, yeah, clear it with people you know you can trust. But so far as anyone else is concerned, I've taken a hike, disappeared on you. My story is that I got fed up with being your slave but don't have the cash to get out of town. So I'm looking for a way to make some fast. And you don't come near me when I'm on the streets. I'll call you when I've got something."

Milt didn't like it – for one thing, if he went the whole route and put out an APB like the situation Mark described would warrant, any passing cop could spot him, pick him up, and blow the whole program. And he didn't much care for the idea of not being in close range, to keep an eye on things.

Mark was studying him. "Like you said, Judge, where would I run to? You're just going to have to trust that when I drop out of sight, that I haven't given you the slip. And don't worry – I know how to avoid being seen by the cops."

"Yeah, you've got a terrific record at that," Hardcastle sneered sarcastically. "The last one identified you because you pulled him out of a burning wreck. Great avoidance technique you've got there, kiddo."

Giving him a lopsided but somehow humorless smile, his eyes shadowed, Mark held up his hands. "Like I'm always telling you, Judge, I'm an innocent man with nothing to hide." But the smile fell away as he leaned forward, his demeanor deadly serious. "You said you almost got this punk more than once – that means he knows you, too. If he sees you hanging around, he'll know something's up. If he sees you with me, I'm dead."

"I don't know," Hardcastle hedged. "I could be cruising around, asking if anyone's seen you – you know, trying to track you down. Might even add to your credibility. And at least I'd be handy if you needed backup. An', if anyone did see us talking, well, you could shove me away and run off, and I could yell my head off for someone to stop you. We both know, nobody would."

Something shifted in Mark's eyes before he looked away. His head dropped and his shoulders sagged. "Fine, fine," he sighed, sounding tired. "You'll do what you want, whatever I say. So, yeah, sure, by all means, drive around the area, be conspicuous – maybe you're right. Maybe it will help my cover story."

Pushing himself to his feet, he picked up the pistol and the box of ammunition. "I'll sleep under the hedge tonight, so I look suitably disheveled, and make my way into the neighborhood tomorrow sometime, once my beard has had a chance to give me a stubbled, unwashed look. That'll give you time to set things up downtown."

"Look, I know you need some time to set things up," Milt offered, feeling bad but not sure why. The kid just seemed so discouraged all of a sudden, and he had a point about how vulnerable his position would be once he was out there, on his own. "I'll give you a couple days before I come looking for you – that way, it'll seem like some snitch saw you and left a tip that you were down there somewhere, okay? But you call me at least twice a day, you hear? So I know you're okay."

Mark gave him a bleak smile. "Why, Judge, you almost sound like you might be worried about me."

"Yeah, well," Milt muttered, "there'd be a lot of paperwork if you got yourself killed down there."

"Right." Turning away, Mark moved toward the door. "Well, I guess if I'm going to be one of the homeless for a few days, I'd better get the dusting done before I go," he said over his shoulder, and added just before he disappeared into the hall, "I'll mow the back forty after lunch, work up a sweat – that'll give me that distinctive essence of the unwashed that'll be so helpful in making my story at least halfway believable."

Sitting back in his chair, Hardcastle chewed on his lip and wondered what had caused the bitter tone he'd clearly heard in McCormick's voice. The kid didn't really think he didn't have any choice, did he? Sure, it was a dangerous assignment, but Milt was positive he could handle it, or he never would have suggested it. Or did Mark just hate dusting that much? Shrugging, Milt told himself McCormick could be awfully damned moody.

Then, thinking back over the conversation, he snorted. Sleep under the hedge? Like that would ever happen. McCormick had more sense than that – Mark had, as usual, just been pulling his chain. Grinning, he shook his head. The kid really cracked him up.

Reaching for the phone, he dialed Frank's direct number, to bring him up to speed on what he'd likely protest as a hare-brained scheme. Frank hadn't met McCormick yet, so didn't know the kid was cool under fire and quick on the uptake. So far as Milt was concerned, there was no question that sending in an ex-con would get them a whole lot further, a good deal faster, in figuring out what was going down, than trying to slip an undercover cop into the neighborhood.

"_You what!"_ Harper exclaimed, when he learned that Hardcastle was loaning one of his weapons to McCormick. _"Have you completely lost your mind? You know damned well you can't trust that guy yet – and even if he is on the side of the angels, you might as well put him back on a bus to Quentin. Because if he's caught with a gun, that's where he'll be going."_

"Well, see, that's exactly why I called you," Milt replied with as much charm as he could muster. "The kid needs a contact in the PD who can be called if he does get hassled by a local patrol. Someone who can tell the enquiring officers that it's all on the up and up, and that McCormick has special dispensation to carry because he's working with me. Okay? Piece o' cake. Relax, Frank. McCormick isn't trigger-happy. It's just for show."

Milt heard a heavy, beleaguered sigh over the line. "Frank, you know I'm right about this. Something damned fishy is going on down there and no cop is ever going to be able to get as close as McCormick can. You'll see – it'll all be fine."

"_Tell that to my ulcer,"_ Frank grumbled. "_Okay, okay, give McCormick my name and number. He'll have to memorize it, 'cause if the bad guys find it on him, he'll be victim number five."_

Milt's lips thinned at the reminder that this gambit wouldn't be a walk in the park. "No problem," he assured his old friend. "McCormick's no dummy. He can handle himself."

"_I hope you're right, Milt,"_ Frank said with another sigh. _"I really hope you're right."_

o0o

Mark thought about his new assignment while he finished cleaning the house and then went outside to mow the endless lawns that overlooked the Pacific. On one hand, he was … well, pleased was too strong a word, but gratified, he guessed, that Hardcastle was willing to give him so much leash, letting him work the streets pretty much on his own. On the other hand, he understood very well that Hardcase didn't either trust or value him much, so he wondered if he was being given the potentially dangerous assignment because he was more or less expendable. Being expendable wasn't a compliment by any stretch of the imagination. But then he tried to argue himself out of that. Hell, the Judge had expressed outrage that homeless strangers and prostitutes he didn't know had been murdered, so how likely was it that he'd send in someone he _did_ know unless he was fairly confident Mark would survive the escapade? So, was this assignment a kind of back-handed compliment? Or just a case of necessity – wasn't like Hardcastle had anyone else he could send.

Giving up trying to understand what went on in Hardcase's head, Mark turned his thoughts to the assignment itself. He was sorry that he'd suggested that he'd need to carry a gun. He'd thought Hardcastle would nix the idea and, maybe, see that the whole setup was just plain nuts. Could have knocked him over with a feather when Hardcastle shoved the pistol and the ammo at him. But the truth was, Mark wasn't all that comfortable carrying a weapon into what could be an explosive situation. And if the cops did roust him, well, he'd sure be in violation of his parole. Man, he did _not_ want to go back to prison.

Stopping to catch his breath and mop the sweat streaming from his brow, he gazed out over the ocean. The view never failed to calm him. God, it was beautiful here. For all he bitched and moaned about the chores, he couldn't get over his luck in landing in a place like this. Okay, so Hardcase was pretty seriously unhinged when it came to chasing down crooks that it was the cops' job to catch … but he wasn't a bad guy. Mark had more than enough experience under his belt to know he could have wound up in lots worse circumstances.

Not that risking his life on a semi-regular basis was all that great. But … well, there were exciting moments and it was rarely dull hanging around with the old donkey. And though Mark had never seen himself as any kind of do-gooder or, shaking his head with chagrin, an avenging hero dedicated to justice, he had to admit that helping to get seriously dangerous criminals off the street made him feel pretty good about himself.

Okay, armed or not, he was going to be heading downtown tomorrow, to see what he could find out about what was going on. Mostly, he didn't think it was going to be all that difficult, though he regretted having to leave the Coyote behind. A ride like that was just too noticeable and, besides, the car would be stripped down by the local scavengers as soon he turned his back. Nope, he'd be riding the bus, and wasn't that a thrill and a half? His cover story was believable and, unless they just shot him before he could get a word in edgewise, the odds were good that he'd be able to handle this without getting himself killed.

Wouldn't want the Judge saddled with all that inconvenient paperwork, that was for sure.

He smiled with humorless self-disparagement. Imagine hoping that Hardcastle might have been expressing concern about his welfare, as if that was ever likely to happen. Would be nice, though, if _someone_ on this earth gave a damn whether he lived or died. Shrugging, deciding he was being unduly dramatic, he stuffed his sweat-dampened bandana into his pocket, and went back to mowing the grass. Hell, it wasn't like he didn't have _any_ friends, right? Maybe none all that reliable or all that close, but they cared, in their own way. They cared …

o0o

Hardcastle wrinkled his nose at the pungent scent of unwashed McCormick as he speared a pork chop and then ladled a healthy dollop of mashed potatoes onto his plate. Mark passed him the yellow beans and carrots, and then helped himself to a chop.

"Ya know, I don't really expect you to sleep on the street," Milt said with a baleful look at the streak of dirt on Mark's cheek and the sweat staining the bandana around his head. "Especially if you're toting my pistol around. Wouldn't want anyone to rip it off and shoot you with it."

"Yeah, I know, the paperwork on _that_ would be outta sight," Mark rejoined with heavy sarcasm. "About the pistol, Hardcase. I've been thinking –"

"Okay, now I know we're in trouble," Milt grunted.

Unfazed, McCormick continued, "Like I said, I've been thinking and I don't think I should take a weapon after all. If they want me to become an enforcer, I'm sure they have their own armory – and, in the meantime, I won't be tempting fate by violating the terms of my parole."

"About that," Hardcastle replied, as he pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. "This here's the name and number of Lieutenant Frank Harper. If you do get picked up by the local cops, you can use his name to get sprung."

"I bet he's thrilled to be my safety net," Mark muttered, eying the note the Judge placed on the table beside him as he cut his meat.

Milt just grimaced and covered the gap in the conversation by taking a big bite and chewing industriously.

Mark picked up the note and stuffed it in his jeans. "This Harper told you you were nuts, right?" he probed with a broad teasing smile.

"Something like that," Milt allowed with a wry grin. "Anyhow, he's in the wings if you need him. And," he went on, pushing an envelope he'd brought into the dining room toward Mark, "here's some cash. Won't cover a night at the Hilton, but should be enough for a few nights in a flophouse and your meals."

Quirking a brow, McCormick picked up the envelope and looked inside, his thumb riffling through the greenbacks. Wasn't a fortune, but there was enough there for a bus ticket out of town. Maybe the Judge did trust him, a little, anyway. "Thanks, Hardcase. Can't say as I was looking forward to curling up in a cardboard box. Now I just have to hope the flophouse doesn't have fleas."

"Yeah, well, you go in smelling like that and they'll drop dead in self-defense," Hardcastle muttered. "You got enough quarters for the pay phone?"

"Uh huh," Mark assured him, around a mouthful of food. "I've got seven," he went on, once he'd swallowed. "One for emergencies and enough for two calls a day for three days. If I'm still alive by then, I should have something worth reporting."

"You better still be alive!" Milt shouted. Damn it, they weren't playing games here and that kind of joking around just wasn't funny.

"I know, the paperwork would be a bitch," Mark agreed with a shrug. Tilting a look up through his lashes, he added with a deadpan expression, "Wouldn't be a lot of fun for me, either."

Hardcastle snorted and shook his head. Well, at least the kid seemed to understand that this was serious business.

"Thought I'd take a bus downtown early tomorrow afternoon," Mark went on. "That'll give me time to clean the pool before I go."

"Ah, geez, McCormick, I can give you a lift," Milt told him, his expression pained.

Mark chuckled and gave him a patient look. "Judge, I'm a big boy. I know how to ride the bus, okay? Best if nobody sees me with you anywhere near there."

"Whatever," Hardcastle agreed, knowing the kid was right. "So, you sure you don't want to take the pistol?"

Pushing his plate away, Mark crossed his arms on the table. "Yeah, I'm sure. Fewer complications. And I don't want to come across as a threat, just tough and on the run. If they turn on me, well, one pistol against a gang wouldn't make any difference."

Milt eyed him skeptically. He had the oddest feeling that he was sending a lamb to the slaughter, and he didn't like it.

"What?"

Sighing, Hardcastle grumbled as he lifted his loaded fork, "You're a real tough guy, alright; more like an overgrown puppy. You sure you can do this?"

Mark gave him a smug smile as he picked up his glass of milk. "Ah, Judge, you only say that because you've only ever seen my good side."

Milt gaped at him. Good side? About to retort, he swallowed too fast the wrong way and started to choke, his face going purple.

Alarmed, Mark jumped up to pound him on the back. "Hey, take it easy, Hardcase," he urged. "I don't even want to _think _about the paperwork i _I'd_ /i have to fill out if you croaked laughing at me."

Hardcastle waved him away and took a healthy swallow of water. "Yeah, a real tough guy," he rasped, scowling as he shook his head, struck by his own puppy analogy. The kid yipped and yapped, growled but didn't bite, was more playful than anything. And yet … he was loyal. So far, at least. Grimacing, Milt hoped this particular pup really was up to running with that pack of wild dogs; feeling chilled, his unsettled feeling stole away the rest of his appetite. McCormick had done good work up to now, and Milt was pretty sure he had the moxie for this assignment but …

… but one false step and those animals would tear the kid apart.

o0o

Hardcastle looked up as McCormick ambled into the den, and assessed the kid's appearance. He hadn't shaved that morning and looked a bit scruffy, but he had showered – evidently, since he wouldn't be sleeping on the streets, he'd decided that he didn't have to over-do the homeless bit. His jeans and T-shirt weren't fresh from the laundry, not by a long shot, but that just gave him a slightly rumpled look, as if he was on the run, which was good. And he was wearing his light blue jacket, which was also just as well, because the wind off the ocean was cool that day and the nights downtown could be chilly.

"Lawns are mowed, dusting's done, and the pool's clean. I think you're all set for a few days on your own, Hardcase," Mark drawled as he placed the pistol and box of ammunition on the desk. Jerking his thumb toward the door, he went on, "I'm about ready to hitch a ride to the nearest bus stop. Any last minute instructions, Kemosabe?"

Sitting back, Milt waved him to a chair. When Mark was seated, a quizzical look on his face, Hardcastle said gruffly, "I just want to make sure you know you've got a choice, here. Just 'cause you're in my judicial stay doesn't mean that you can't speak your mind – though I've never gotten the idea that you don't – so if you're worried about doing this, tell me now."

Mark blinked at him, evidently surprised by the question, and the ever-present shield in his eyes that hid a lot of what he really thought slipped for a minute, allowing Hardcastle to see a surprising vulnerability before the kid turned his face away. "Worried? Nah, not really," Mark replied, his tone a bit distant. He shrugged and looked back with a grin and laughing eyes. "I don't have a death wish, Hardcase, if that's what you're wondering. I'll be careful."

Milt harrumphed and nodded. "Okay, and you got your story straight?"

For a moment, McCormick seemed disconcerted. "Uh, about that," he began, scratching his stubbled cheek, "I was thinking that maybe I'd use your name as an in. You know, not just that I'm on the lam from our cozy little arrangement here, but that, uh, I might have overheard something that suggests that you're putting two and two together – and coming up with a whole lot more than the cops." When Hardcastle frowned, he hurried on, "It makes it more credible for me to be on their turf, right? Looking for 'Angel'? I mean, otherwise, why wouldn't I just have breezed out of town? I could make it that I'm looking for some action – or, at the very least, that I expect some kind of reward for giving them a heads-up."

Milt thought about it, his gaze drifting away to look out the window. Made sense. Not a bad gambit. And, impressed, he wondered why he hadn't thought of it himself.

"The downside is," Mark offered, sounding uncertain, "I could be making you a target."

"Yeah, I got that part," Milt replied sardonically, but then he nodded. "I think it's a good idea – not being the target part, but you know what I mean. And if they come hunting me," he added, baring his teeth in a wolfish smile, "well, then we'll get 'em."

Mark gave him a bemused grin. "Just can't help wanting to be John Wayne, can you, Judge?" he asked, a teasing tone in his voice.

"Now yer cookin'!" Hardcastle shot back, his smile widening. The new scenario gave him a good feeling; better that he should be the target and McCormick only the bait. Lot less risky that way.

Snickering, Mark stood and, after patting his pockets, he pulled his jacket down. "Okay, well, I've got my bus fare, quarters, the allowance you gave me, and Lieutenant Harper's number memorized. I'm all set, Mom. Guess I'll take off."

"Just be careful, ya hear?" Milt warned. "Don't do anything stupid."

Rolling his eyes, Mark gave him a mock salute and headed out the door. "I'll call you tonight from the 'flophouse'; let you know where I am," he called from the hallway, just before the front door softly slammed closed.

His fingers drumming on the desk, thinking the house already sounded unnaturally silent, Milt told himself the kid would be just fine. Even so, a few minutes later, he jumped to his feet and headed out to his truck.

o0o

Walking backwards along Highway 101, his thumb stuck out to signal his hopes for a lift, Mark started to grin when he saw the battered old pickup coming his way. Shaking his head and snickering to himself when it slowed and stopped a few feet past where he'd been standing, he loped up to it and leaned down to look in the open passenger window. "What, checking on me already?" he asked. "Or was the Lone Ranger missing Tonto?"

The Judge snorted and waved him inside. "No reason you should have to walk to the bus stop," he muttered. "'s over a mile away."

Grinning, Mark climbed in. Leaning his elbow on the window ledge, he half turned to face Hardcastle. "Under all that tough-as-nails grumpiness, you really are just a big softie, aren't you, Hardcase?"

"Don't push it, McCormick," he grumbled. "I just don't want you wastin' any time getting downtown."

"Yeah, right," Mark drawled. "Whatever you say, Batman."

Hardcastle sniffed and, after checking his mirrors, mutely guided the truck back onto the road.

Mark caught the small frown furrowing Hardcastle's brow, and he wondered if, maybe, the Judge really was just the least bit worried about him – or, more likely, worried about whether he'd screw-up the whole thing. A bit surprised when Hardcase pulled up beside the bus stop without offering any further words of advice or directions on how to handle himself, he popped open the door. "Don't worry. I'm pretty sure I can handle this, okay?" he offered, feeling lame and stupid for caring what the Judge thought about him.

"I know you can handle it, McCormick," Hardcastle growled. "Wouldn't be sending ya, if I didn't."

"Oh, uh, well, okay," Mark stammered as he climbed out and closed the door, surprised by the outright expression of confidence. "Thanks for the lift, Hardcastle," he added and tapped the top of the truck before he sauntered away.

"Don't forget to call me later!" the Judge shouted after him, and Mark waved his reassurance.

Watching the truck pull a U-turn and drive back along the highway, Mark shook his head. He didn't understand the old guy, he really didn't. If he didn't know better, he'd almost think the Judge was concerned about him – not because of any lack of trust in his ability, but just 'cause it was, admittedly, a dangerous assignment. "Nah," he muttered to himself as he turned away to lean on the nearby post, his hands in his pockets. "Nah, he just hates not being in perfect control. Makes him nervous when he's gotta rely on someone else, whoever that might be, to get something done. It's nothing personal."

Still, that clear and unequivocal statement of confidence had been kinda nice.

Straightening as he saw the bus trundling toward him, Mark told himself that he'd show the Judge that his trust, however limited, wasn't misplaced. Hell, he'd done time in the Big House with characters a whole lot scarier and more dangerous than this self-proclaimed Angel of Death. So, okay, the guy and his gang were dangerous. So was crossing the street if you didn't look both ways first.

Mark had learned to look both ways. He knew how to read the signals, and he damned well knew how to handle himself around crazy bullies and killers.

The trick was to never show fear. Tough, cool confidence put them off their game and made them nervous, made them wonder what they were missing.

Made them wonder if you were more dangerous than they were.

And the next trick was to make them believe you were.

Would be a good trick, he thought, resigned to a long ride as he settled in a seat by the window, because he knew without any doubt that he didn't have whatever guys like that had – or maybe he had what they didn't have, like a conscience or the capacity to feel compassion or remorse. He couldn't ever be as dangerous as they were; didn't want to be anything like them. Made him shudder to even imagine it. Guys like that scared him because, really, there was no reasoning with them. Getting along with them was all about attitude, being able to bluff, being able to play the game.

Taking a deep breath, trying hard not to feel bitter about it, he told himself that spending time in Clarksville and Quentin, not to mention that weird field trip when they'd shipped him to Joliet for a couple months, had at least taught him the rules of that game – and he'd learned those lessons well.

o0o

Two hours later, Mark was prowling with the coiled grace of a hunting panther around old Hollywood, eying the refuse-strewn streets and dingy alleyways, the hustlers, panhandlers, and prostitutes of both genders who strutted their wares in broad daylight; the gaping – many obviously nervous – tourists; and street kids, gang members, addicts and winos. Garish electric signs hung over doorways and in grimy windows, many of them pulsing with lights made feeble by the bright sun, but which would give the strip a carnival air after dark. Traffic oozed along the street, horns honking, drivers cruising for action. The neighborhood might have once been a kind of Mecca, a magical place of high hopes and golden dreams but, like a wine-soaked floozy gone to seed, Tinsel Town hadn't aged well. So far as Mark could see, the people here had precious few hopes and those old and tarnished dreams seemed to have turned into nightmares.

He turned up the collar of his jacket and pushed the sleeves up to bare his forearms. Well into his mindset of dangerous ex-con on the run, he was careful not to smile or look generally friendly and harmless. Instead, he schooled his expression into cynical contempt, and did his best to project an air of malice and insipient trouble looking for a place to happen. By the way people skirted around him either with wide-eyed wariness or with their gaze cast down, giving him space, he figured his demeanor was having the desired effect. Wondering if Hardcase had called in an APB, he kept a lookout for cops, turning casually to face storefront windows whenever a cruiser drifted past.

Eschewing the better class of hotel, places where they changed the sheets between guests and swabbed out the bathrooms on a regular basis, he chose a grungy dive on a side street, where he figured the regular clientele rented rooms by the hour. His nose wrinkled at the sour, musty scent of unwashed floors, mildew, and decades of dust as he entered from the street, pausing to let his eyes adjust to dim interior before moving toward the bored and more than slightly drunk, scrawny, middle-aged bald guy sitting in the tiny cubicle behind the half-door cum reception desk.

"Got a room for two nights?" he asked, pulling out his wallet and hoping one night in this flea-bitten joint would be more than enough, but that was being optimistic and he knew it.

"That'll be thirty bucks, cash up front," the clerk drawled, sounding bored, as he squinted at Mark through glasses that looked liked they'd been fashioned out of the bottoms of old Coke bottles.

_Probably can't see an inch in front of his nose,_ Mark thought, figuring that had to be a handy excuse whenever cops dropped by to find out if he'd seen anything which, in a place like this, had to be almost a daily occurrence. His lips thinning at the cost, he gave the guy a flat look of disgust and shook his head. "I'll give you fifteen."

The clerk sniffed and rubbed his mouth, then shrugged philosophically. "Won't get a private john for that."

"Whatever," Mark rejoined, sounding equally bored, as he slapped the dollars on the narrow counter and held out his hand for the key. The place was a pit, but it had the advantage of being within a block or so of three of the murder locations, which was all that mattered to him. If the room had a deadbolt, it would be a bonus. When the man passed him the key, he noted the number on the grungy plastic tab attached with a short link of cheap, tarnished chain, and turned to climb up the noisome stairwell to the second floor.

The room across the hall from the shared lavatory overlooked the street and was stifling. A fly banged desultorily against the filthy, bare window, its low buzz frantic and annoying. The narrow bed was covered with a thin, fraying and stained ancient spread, the colors long faded, and it looked like the mattress sagged badly in the middle. Mark wasn't interested in ever seeing what the sheets looked like. There was a single, straight-backed wooded chair, a small, chipped and dingy table, a low-wattage, uncovered bulb in a fixture over the bed, and a grimy sink in one corner.

"Home sweet home," he muttered as he crossed the bare floor to open the window and let the fly escape its purgatory. The light breeze that entered was heavily scented with exhaust, but still fresher than the stale, stifling air in the room.

Sighing, he stretched out on the bed on top of the spread, and the old springs squeaked in protest against his weight. Cupping his hands under his head, he stared up at the fly-specked ceiling. In a few hours, he'd go in search of something to eat, and call Hardcastle from the phone booth on the corner. Once dusk began to fall, he'd take another walk around the target area that he already knew was a rundown block of old, dilapidated buildings that once housed offices, tenements, and small warehouses. Most of them were now boarded up, awaiting demolition once the city got around to applying urban renewal priorities to the neighborhood. As ugly and drearily dangerous as the area was, the land had to be worth a fortune, and someone would make a killing once some keen developer decided that Hollywood needed a facelift. But, for now, those buildings provided resting places for the homeless and the perpetually lost souls that found their way into the city – and, no doubt, a cozy hangout for the local street gang, as well as their spiffy new drug lab.

But the sun wouldn't go down for hours yet, and he had to kill some time. Might as well take a nap.

Could be a long, busy night and, hopefully, a productive one.

center o0o /center 

At just after 9:30 pm that evening, Milt grabbed up the receiver on the first ring. "Yeah?"

"_Geez, Hardcase, you must've been sitting on top of the phone. Hello to you, too."_

"'Bout time you called!" Hardcastle yelled with a glance at the clock on the mantle. "Where the hell are you?"

"_Well, let's see. I'm in a phone booth, on a corner,"_ Mark replied with exaggerated precision, and Milt rolled his eyes at the soft snicker. _"Listen, I got a room at the Palace – and, believe me, a palace it's not – but it's in the right area, and the price fit my budget. I'm gonna take my evening constitutional now, and see if I can make some new friends. You call in an APB on me?"_

"Yeah, this afternoon, an' I gave your parole officer a heads-up to not worry about it," Milt informed him, having gone ahead with the plan, though he hoped Mickey Di Angelo didn't have a spy inside the PD. His worries about that making him gruff, he growled, "Remember when you're making all these new 'friends' not to do anything too stupid."

"_Ah, Judge, you say the sweetest things,"_ Mark teased. _"I'll be in touch,"_ he added with a colder, more abrupt tone, and then the line went dead.

Hardcastle grimaced as he hung up. "Guess one of those new 'friends' was showing an interest already," he muttered to himself as he rubbed his mouth and sighed. He felt as if he was flying blind, too far from the action to do any good, and he didn't like it, not one bit. But, since this scheme had been his idea, he guessed he'd just have to suck it up and let McCormick do his thing.

Determined not to worry, but twitchy, restless, and needing to let off some steam, he went outside to shoot hoops and run his routine lay-ups.

But it wasn't the same now, not when he'd become used to playing a fast game of pickup with McCormick. Catching the ball after it bounced off the backboard, he swiped his forearm across his sweating brow and looked up at the dark window above the hoop. Shaking his head, he turned away and headed back to the house.

"Huh, who would have thought?" he muttered to himself in disgust. "I miss him. And just how dumb is that?"

o0o

Mark was very aware of the hostile, intentionally intimidating glares he was receiving from a clutch of half a dozen Dragons who were strutting with studied insolence past the open phone booth. They wouldn't have caught more than the abrupt end of his conversation, so he wasn't particularly worried that they'd essentially caught him making contact with the Judge, but he did regret that he'd attracted their attention so soon. His earlier scouting of the crime scene areas must've attracted someone's attention – which only underscored Hardcase's instincts that something hot was going on in the immediate area. He'd been one of many grifters and drifters, lost tourists and ordinary people wandering around earlier – took a lot of eyes and a close watch to take note of everyone who passed by, and then to keep the area under surveillance to see who did, and more important, _didn't_ wander off again. What bothered him most was that he hadn't noticed that many watchers – so, quite a few weren't wearing gang colors, or he would have spotted them.

Frowning as he slid out of the booth, he wasn't sure what that meant, if anything. Could be the gang was simply keeping a low profile for the benefit of the cops – locals would know who they were, with or without their crimson bandanas and blatantly displayed tattoos. But it could also mean that Mickey had gone into partnership with someone else. Someone who didn't want to be noticed. Maybe someone from one of the West Coast mob families, who had the bankroll to invest in cornering the drug trade on the streets of Hollywood.

The question was, should he make contact now or not? It was a little too early and a little too public out here on Hollywood Boulevard, but it would look odd, wouldn't it, if he ignored them and then later said he was looking for The Angel. They'd be bound to wonder why he didn't just ask now, given the opportunity.

Lifting his gaze to meet theirs unflinchingly, his stance easy and confident, he gave them a look of candid and cool assessment before letting his eyes drift down over their bodies and back up again to their eyes. Then, as if massively unimpressed, he deliberately broke eye contact and turned his scrutiny to the street, as if he was surreptitiously scanning for anyone else who might be watching. Thanking his lucky stars for the patrol car that turned the corner and rolled toward him, very glad of the distraction it gave as well as a reason for him to turn and walk away from them, he casually sauntered along the cracked sidewalk in the opposite direction. His face turned away from the road and the cops now passing on his right, he was heading toward the side street that would take him back to the abandoned buildings and back streets.

Ideally, he wanted to make contact on their turf … and, if he'd provoked their attention sufficiently, they should be trailing along behind him, like mesmerized kids following the Pied Piper.

Which, in this subtle game of dominance and submission, was damned near perfect for his purposes, and he was hard-pressed not to smile in satisfaction. Without a word being exchanged yet, he'd showed he wasn't afraid of them but was mindful of the cops – and he was showing them he was interested in making contact in an area that had to be meaningful to them. An area that was shadowed and practically deserted at this time of night, away from prying eyes – establishing that he was more one of them than of the rest of humanity's rank and file. Yep, things were moving along nicely.

Once away from the busy boulevard, he could hear their heavy boots thumping on the cement behind him. Keeping his own pace unhurried, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets so they'd be bound to wonder if he was carrying, he pointedly didn't look back. Just kept going along the block and then around another corner, past the alley where the first murder had been done. Several streetlights had been smashed, so it was much darker here than on the main drag, and there were far fewer people in sight. Down the block, a drunk sprawled against a dumpster, and shadows moved in the mouth of the alley across the street. Muted light flared and then disappeared in one of the abandoned tenements, as if someone had struck a match and then blown it out after lighting a cigarette.

Knowing he was in deadly danger, Mark felt a shiver of atavistic fear. The footsteps about a half-block behind were speeding up, so it was time for him to make the next move, before they caught up with him and asserted their own dominance. Slowing, he turned to lean his back against the dirty brick of an old office building and, hands still stuffed in his jacket pockets, tilted his head to watch them approach, as if he was waiting impatiently for them; which, of course, he was. To complete the picture of unconcerned superiority, as they neared, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, taking a long drag as they took the last few steps necessary to stand in a glowering semi-circle around him.

"I'm looking for The Angel," he said before any one of them could speak.

"Yeah, and who the fuck are you?" one of them challenged belligerently. The guy was skinny, with sallow skin and the narrow little eyes of a weasel.

Mark took another drag while he gave the guy a cool look of dismissive assessment. With an arctic smile, he replied as he exhaled, "I'm somebody who has information that, trust me, Mickey will very much want to know."

One them, a big bruiser with a dragon tattoo on his shaved head, pulled a switchblade from his leather jacket, and flicked it open. "Tell us and we'll pass it along."

Mark snorted. "I don't talk to the help," he drawled, contempt in his tone and expression. Tossing his cigarette to the sidewalk, he ground it out with his heel. "Just tell him it concerns Hardcastle. That should be enough to get his attention."

"I don't like your attitude," another gang member snarled, taking a threatening step toward him.

"I don't much care what you like or don't like," Mark replied with hard indifference, his back still casually braced against the building; he fisted one hand in his jacket pocket, making a bulge that could be mistaken for a gun. He saw them glance down, and he knew they wondered if he was armed or not. Glancing back at the big guy with the blade, he went on, "Don't make a stupid mistake here. You don't want to kill the goose before Mickey gets the golden egg. Believe me, he wouldn't thank you for it."

"You talk like you know The Angel," another voice chimed in, curiosity threading through his sullen tones.

"Nope, never had the pleasure," McCormick said with a shrug. Looking idly up and down the deserted street, his gaze unconsciously lingering on the derelict building where he'd seen the brief light, he went on, "Have heard about him, though. Heard lots about him, and what he's into these days."

When they stiffened, he figured he must've inadvertently looked at something that had significance, a building in this block or the next that was important. He just smiled wolfishly as he turned his attention back to them. "Hey, I'm all for free enterprise, ya know? And I can appreciate the need to keep some things under wraps. I'm not here to threaten anyone."

"You could be a cop," Goliath sneered.

Mark laughed at that, low in his throat, the sound ugly and cruel. "Now that, that's funny," he allowed and shook his head. Shoving away from the wall, he straightened, causing them all to stiffen defensively. "Relax," he soothed sarcastically. "Like I said, I'm not here to hurt anyone, or get in the way of your business interests. Tell The Angel that I'm staying at the Palace, and I'll be there for two nights. After that, I'm moving on; it's too hot for me to hang around here any longer than that. If he wants to know what Hardcastle is up to, he can let me know. If not …" Mark shrugged again. "No skin off my nose; just trying to do the guy a favor."

"Why would you want to do that?" Weasel demanded suspiciously.

"He who is an enemy of my enemy is my friend," Mark ground out in a low, menacing tone, making them strain to hear his words. "Let's just say that Milton C. Hardcastle is no friend of mine. And, from what I hear, he's no friend of Mickey's either. Could be, once he hears what I have to say, Mickey will want to do me a favor."

They scowled at him, indecisive, not really sure what to do. Hardcase was right – Di Angelo's minions were afraid of him, afraid of incurring his wrath. So they didn't dare hurt him, not without knowing what he knew. Not in case it was something damned important.

He let his gaze drift over them. "I've said what I have to say," he said, his tone bluntly dismissive. "We're done here." Shouldering abruptly through their ranks, he began ambling back along the street.

"Stop right there! You ain't goin' nowhere!" one of them shouted. "Not till we say so!"

Wheeling around, he jabbed a finger at them as he growled, "No, you look –" and again, he lifted his gaze to the street past them. When two reflexively twitched and looked toward a building just down the block, the one where he'd seen the brief light, he continued harshly before they could realize what they'd done, "I've had it with you bozos. Think you're so tough, huh? We _ate_ guys like you for breakfast in Quentin." Turning away, he disparagingly called over his shoulder, "He can find me at that rat-shit Palace or one of the bars nearby. Tonight, tomorrow or tomorrow night. After that, you can kiss my ass good-bye and good ole Mickey D is on his own with Hardcase."

Mark's heart was in his throat as he continued his measured pace. Though he was holding his breath, insolent contempt for them was written in every line of his body. When he finally heard their footsteps moving off, scuffling echoes on the silent street, he exhaled in a long, silent whistle of relief. Swallowing to moisten his fear-parched throat, he inhaled deeply and let it out slowly as he guarded his pace. He'd carried off the charade and he didn't want to blow it now by appearing to hurry away, as if afraid that they might come after him. Idly, he let his gaze roam the buildings and alleys, but it had gotten too dark for him to spot any of the more circumspect watchers.

They were there, though; he could feel their eyes on him.

He strolled around the corner, and back toward the relative safety of the bright lights.

Keeping up his pretense of indifference, just in case he'd picked up a tail, he passed the Palace and turned into the seedy bar beside the flophouse and two doors down from the still busy boulevard. Choosing a small table in a dark corner facing the entrance, he ordered a beer. Slouched in his chair as if he hadn't a care in the world, he sipped on the icy beverage and casually watched who came in but, if he was being watched in his turn, whoever it was, was good. Nobody seemed to pay the least bit of attention to him.

While he nursed his second beer, he pondered the problem of getting in touch with Hardcastle. The phone out on the corner was just a little too public now; he'd be bound to raise suspicions if he was spotted making any more calls from it.

And he had to believe that they'd be keeping an eye on him.

Sighing, he scratched his nose and thought that he and Hardcase had played this just a little too cute. Sure, staying in a cheap dump like the Palace made sense in terms of his cover story – but it would make things a hell of a lot easier if he was holing up in a room with a phone.

On the other hand, at least one of those Dragons must've overheard him say he'd 'be in touch'. So … they'd be expecting him to make a call, right? If he kept an eye out and only passed along real information when nobody was too close to hear, he could bluff the rest, make it sound like he was setting up a ride out of town, or a gig at wherever he was going. That could work.

But he might only get that one more call. And he probably wouldn't have a lot of time to bring Hardcase up to speed. Unless … maybe he could finesse it, make it sound like he was pissed off with whoever was on the other end, and give them a deadline to do whatever needed to be done; he could say he'd call one more time. That was pushing it. There might not be time for another call if things heated up fast. That was both good and bad. Good, in that maybe they could wind up this little adventure sooner rather than later. Bad, in that Hardcase would have to play things loose, not knowing whether they might come after him at Gulls Way, or grab him if he ventured into the area, supposedly hunting down his errant ex-con based on information from a snitch.

If he was The Angel, how would he play it? The guy wouldn't likely piss around once he knew Hardcastle was putting two and two together. He'd take Hardcase out as soon as possible – so, if the opportunity presented itself, Mickey would take it. The problem was the timing. How soon would contact be made?

If the Judge showed up before he'd had a meet with Mickey, then all bets were off. Hell, maybe just dropping Hardcastle's name was enough to set the killer off. Given the trail of bodies that already existed, this guy didn't take any chances.

Too many variables. Too much they didn't control. Too damned much flying by the seat of their pants.

_Face it,_ he told himself grimly, _this is one stupid plan and it's probably going to blow up in our faces._

Disgusted, Mark upended his glass and swallowed the last of his beer. Standing, he tossed some bills onto the table and stalked out of the bar.

Outside, he paused and shot a look of aversion at the Palace. Man, he really wasn't looking forward to going back to that room. His cell had had more charm, and that was saying something. Pulling out his cigarettes to give a reason for lingering on the street, he lit up and leaned against a telephone pole, his face turned away from the streetlights as he debated what he should do.

Hardcastle was smart – given a heads-up, he'd be prepared for any eventuality. And maybe the donkey would even get some backup, just in case The Angel made a lightning visit in the middle of the night. For sure, he'd arrange something with the cops to be handy if he came down here … and to check out that building.

But the Judge couldn't make any fast arrangements if he didn't know the situation had already progressed as far as it had.

If Mark waited for Mickey to get in touch, he might not get another chance to make even one phone call. Hell, he thought with a burgeoning sense of doom, with good old Mickey's track record here, once he'd gotten whatever Mark had to offer, he was as likely to kill him – more likely, in fact – than to let him walk away. No percentage in it for The Angel of Death to leave a loose end lying around, _especially_ one who could tie him right back to any attack on Hardcastle.

_Great time to realize that, Tonto,_ he thought with a sick, sinking sensation in his gut. If, by some miracle, he made it out of this mess alive, him and the Judge were going to have to have a serious talk about strategy and logistics and making damned sure Tonto had a whole lot better backup when he went out scouting on his own.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was well after midnight. But, knowing Hardcase the way he did, he'd bet the Lone Ranger was still up, watching one of his favorite John Wayne cowboy classics. Resisting the urge to look around, behaving as if he couldn't give a damn if he was being watched, he tossed the cigarette into the street. Reaching into his pocket for a quarter and hastily reviewing the information he needed to convey, he strode to the phone booth. There was nobody close so it was now or maybe never.

He punched in the number and as soon as he heard the Judge's grunt of greeting, he blurted as fast as he could, "Old Baxter building, third floor, southeast corner. Dropped your name. Get backup _there_ and don't show up here without it. Things are moving fast."

"_McCormick? Would ya slow down –"_

Mark spotted movement from the corner of his eye and he snapped, "Look, I'm fed up with cooling my heels down here. Knowing Hardcase, he's got an APB out and things are too damned hot for me in this town. I'm keeping my head down, but for all I know, some snitch may have already spotted me. So you get me some wheels fast, or you can forget about our deal. Ya hear me? No way am I going back to prison."

"_That hot, huh?"_

The five Dragons shifted into his line of sight, sneers on their faces, but he only recognized the big one from the encounter earlier that evening.

"Yeah," Mark replied, his voice tight. Glaring back at them, Mark said fiercely, "In fact, looks like I'll be ready to go anytime in the next hour or so. So you get those wheels, Guido, and you be ready for my call. Or you can explain to 'Tonio why I took a hike and he needs to recruit another driver at the last fucking minute."

Slamming down the phone, he left the booth and faced the Dragons. "So, do I have an appointment with Mickey or can I just blow this town?"

"Sounds like you're in a hurry to be someplace else," Goliath drawled sarcastically, evidently having enjoyed the show.

Mark just stared daggers at him. When nobody said anything, he flicked a look at the others, his impatience and irritation plain. "I don't have time for this shit," he snarled and turned away, back toward the Palace.

"Okay, okay," the goon called. "Cool your jets, tough guy. Yeah, he wants to see you. Now."

"Good," Mark replied, his tone sharp as he paused and half-turned to look over his shoulder at them. "_Now_ works real well for me."

Goliath jutted his chin toward the dark end of the street. "You know the way. Let's go."

With a curt nod, Mark set off at a brisk pace but, within two strides, the big Dragon was marching along beside him, the others crowding behind. Leaning in close, his breath foul, Goliath said low and mean, "This information better be good, hotshot … or you won't be going nowhere else – _ever_."

Not deigning to look at the creep, let alone respond to the blatant intimidation, Mark just allowed a thin, cold smile to play over his lips and kept walking. But, inside, he was bleakly thinking that the good news was, one way or another, he wasn't going to have to spend even one night in that sleazy room.

As good news went, it wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

And, hey, at least Hardcase knew it was going down and wouldn't be blindsided, no matter what happened next.

His throat desert dry, he wondered if the Judge had gotten _all _of the information he'd done his damnedest to relay. God, he sure hoped Hardcastle was good at reading between the lines.

o0o

Milt stared at the phone as he rubbed his mouth and thought about everything McCormick had said. The building had to be Mark's best bet for the location of the drug lab, though how he'd figured that out so fast boggled the Judge's mind. Shrugging off his amazement, he considered the warning – the kid thought Di Angelo might even come after him here, at the house, which argued that things were moving very fast, far faster than he'd anticipated.

That left the last part of the conversation for him to puzzle over. Was McCormick just blowing hot air to impress whoever had been close enough to hear? And if they were _that_ close, then the kid had taken a real risk making the call at all. Chewing on his lip, Milt didn't like what that implied. Was there any chance the first few words had been overheard? If so, the kid was dead meat. Swallowing hard, remembering McCormick's assurances that he didn't have a death wish and would be careful, Hardcastle shoved that thought away. The fact that he'd taken such a risk, though, to make the call when he was being watched so closely, escalated the Judge's sense of urgency.

Okay, so the meeting with Di Angelo was going down now. Had the kid been trying to ask for backup or just creating a smokescreen? All that stuff about their deal being over and getting a new driver if McCormick didn't get 'wheels' pretty damn quick … a cold shiver rippled up Milt's spine and his gut instinct was screaming that things were going bad in a hurry.

But, damn it, he didn't know if he'd make things better or worse if he called in the cavalry and chased down there now. What the hell did the kid say in the midst of the gobbly-gook? Forcing himself to calm down and think clearly, Hardcastle reviewed the hard and fast messages and instructions McCormick had given. Mark figured i _he_ /i needed immediate backup here at the house – but he'd also said to bring it with him when he went down there. McCormick said he'd be ready to pull out in an hour, so he must figure he had that much time. And he'd said to be ready for his call – but that was the stumper. Did he mean 'call' as in phone call, or 'call' as in yell for help?

Scowling heavily, rubbing his forehead, Milt wished he knew the kid better, well enough to have some hope of reading his mind with any accuracy, but he didn't and he could only go with what McCormick had actually said. And he'd said things were 'too hot' – he'd mentioned the APB and the possibility of having been spotted, and Hardcastle knew he was most likely calling from that phone box on the street. So … it was conceivable that some snitch might have reported his general location. So … Mark had supplied a rationale for him to go down there to nose around without necessarily blowing McCormick's cover.

And Mark had given him a place to start looking.

Preferring action a whole lot more than sitting around, cooling his heels and waiting for the action to come to him, he was reaching for the phone to call Frank when the _way_ Mark had sounded hit him. At no time in the conversation had McCormick made any jokes, smart ass comments, or anything at all that could be construed as cheeky confidence. His whole, rapid-fire message had been about passing along critical information, a warning, and … and, for all that he'd been using a tough, dictatorial tone once he knew he was being overheard, to convey the fact that he was scared, that the bad guys were all around him, and that time was running out.

Hardcastle had never seen or heard the kid deliberately express real fear before. Why now?

And, just like that, Mark's words jelled into a cold, frightening message.

_So you get me some wheels fast, or you can forget about our deal. Ya hear me? No way am I going back to prison._

Prison? Or the estate? Either way, in a lot of ways, it was all the same to McCormick.

God dammit! The kid figured they were going to kill him!

Hardcastle punched in the numbers fast and waited with furious impatience for an answer. "C'mon, c'mon … Frank! It's Milt. We got big trouble."

Swiftly, he outlined what was going down, only to have Harper interrupt, _"Whoa, slow down, Milt. Seems to me you're making a lot of assumptions here, beginning with the fact that you trust this McCormick. Has it occurred to you that he might be setting you up? Maybe this is all a trap to lure you down there."_

"Would you listen to me!" Hardcastle roared. "He gave me the location of the drug lab."

"_Or maybe it's just an old, abandoned building. Doesn't it strike you that he got this information awfully damned fast? You don't know, not for sure, that he's not turning this whole scenario against you, using Di Angelo to take you out."_

"Then why did he tell me to bring backup, huh?" Milt challenged in disgust. "Look, I don't have time for this. If we don't move fast, McCormick could be the next victim here. You round up the troops and meet me down there."

"_Even if you're right, we can't be sure they took him to that building. They could be anywhere,"_ Frank argued. _"Running off half-cocked makes no sense."_

"Yeah, well, it's the best we've got and a place to start! Moving in on the lab will, at the very least, maybe buy the kid some time – they have to have him around there somewhere. And if I show up, that'll give them something else to think about, an' that'll buy _you_ time to get into position."

"_Milt! For God's sake, stay out of it. Let us do our jobs."_

"I sent him in there, Frank, an' I'm sure in blazes not going to leave him hanging on his own," he growled and then wiped his hand over his face. Yelling at Harper wasn't helping anything. "Look, I'm leaving now. If I get there first, I'll try to maybe create a diversion so you guys can sneak in close and snap the trap before they even know you're there. But ya better hurry, or you just might have two more corpses on your hands."

He heard Harper's muffled curse of frustration as he pulled the phone from his ear and slammed it down. Taking his loaded pistol from the desk drawer, he stuffed it into the back of his belt as he hurried out of the room. In the hall, he grabbed his jacket from the closet, then dashed outside, slamming the door behind him. Fueled by icy urgency, the vice of worry tightening in his gut, he hauled on his jacket as he jogged to the garage.

Once he was in the truck, he gunned the engine and raced up the winding driveway, and then tore like a bat out of hell down the highway.

"We shoulda stuck with the original plan," he muttered, castigating himself for falling under the allure of using himself as bait to take the heat off the kid. Would've been a whole lot simpler and _safer_ for McCormick to pose as a wino, looking half-asleep and drunk out of his skull in some alleyway while he staked the place out – at least then kid would've had have a chance of not being noticed and of sneaking off once he'd figured out where the operation was located. Milt realized that he'd been pushing for too much in wanting the kid to insinuate himself into the gang, as an inside man. In hindsight, it was only too clear that there was no good reason for Di Angelo to leave McCormick alive.

Obviously, from what the Mark had said during the call, he'd already figured that out for himself, just too late to make a run for it.

"No, it's _not_ too late," Milt growled. "_Can't_ be too late."

Shaking his head, furious with himself, Hardcastle floored the accelerator and, laying on his horn, swerved around anything that got in his way. When he got stopped by a red light, he thumped the steering wheel in frustration and then, checking the traffic, seeing a break in the flow, he surged on through. If he was lucky, maybe he'd attract a few patrol cars that could follow him downtown.

But as the miles passed and time rushed by too fast, he reflected bitterly that there really never did seem to be a cop around when you needed one.

o0o

Mark continued to stride along as if he knew exactly where they were going, and he supposed he did. When they turned the last corner and he could see the decrepit Baxter Building ahead on the left, just past the middle of the block, he told himself that this was where the rubber hit the road, and he found out whether he'd guessed right or not. As they approached the long-abandoned eyesore that had once been a standard of elegance, he slowed. The front door was boarded up and there was no obvious entry, but then there wouldn't be.

"Is he waiting inside or around back?" he asked, with a nod toward the building, as if in no doubt that this was the place.

Goliath gave him a measuring look, and then pointed toward the mouth of an alley. "Around back."

Mark could feel goosebumps pop up on his skin, and the hairs on the back of his neck lifted with an atavistic fear that he struggled to hide as he led the way into the narrow, nearly pitch-black lane. Squinting to make the most of what little light there was, he slowed a bit, not wanting to stumble over rubble in the dark. Goliath moved a little ahead, and Mark was content to let him lead the way, at least for the moment. The others were still on his heels, but not crowding too close, not shoving, which he took as a good sign. They weren't certain of him, yet; didn't know, not for sure, whether he was someone The Angel would reward or discard.

Maybe there was still a chance that he'd walk out of here in one piece.

_Oh, hell, there's always a chance,_ he chided himself, well aware that he had to stay optimistic or he might as well just shoot himself and be done with it. Confidence, the belief that he would succeed and survive, was everything. Without it, he wouldn't be able to hide his fear. And if they saw his fear, like wild predators, they'd attack.

When they came out of the alley, he could see more clearly, but what he saw wasn't all that reassuring. Looked like more than a dozen gang members were standing around small barrels of burning trash, tense and watchful. Lifting his chin, he scanned their shadowy faces as he strode with easy – if hard won – assurance past a row of stinking dumpsters and on toward them.

Mickey Di Angelo stood with his arms crossed and his feet apart in the center of the group. He wasn't a particularly big man, more lean and wiry than muscled and several inches shorter than Mark, but he projected an aura of tangible menace.

_It's his eyes_, Mark thought as he came within ten feet and then, with a slight incline of his head to acknowledge the man, came to a stop. _That flat, dead stare would give anyone the creeps._

"You wanted to talk to me," Di Angelo drawled. "About Hardcastle."

"Yeah," Mark agreed. "Name's McCormick. For the past two months until I took off earlier today, Hardcase has been holding me as a virtual slave on his estate. Says he wants to rehabilitate me, but all he wants is the free labor. It was either go along with him or take my third fall – and an estate on the ocean was a lot more appealing than going back to San Quentin."

A cruel smile grew on the young hood's face. "I can imagine. So what's all this have to do with me?"

"Hardcastle might be retired, but he stays tight with the cops. I overhead him talking to a detective the other day about the, uh, untimely deaths in the neighborhood. He was trying to convince the cop that you're responsible. Hardcase figures you've been taking out anyone who might have seen too much or heard something that they shouldn't have …" He paused for effect and then, tilting his head toward the building, he went on, "about the new designer drug you're manufacturing inside. His theory is that you're tired of just being a middle man and that you're expanding, moving into the big time."

Di Angelo's smile faded as if it had never been, and his posture tightened. "What did the cop say?"

"Ah, the cops think Hardcase is an eccentric old geezer and they don't put a lot of stock into what he thinks, not since he retired and they don't have to pay attention to him anymore. But he's like a dog with a bone. He won't let it go. Eventually, someone will start checking around down here, if only to shut him up. You've got some time, a few days, a week maybe, before things'll heat up."

"Why come down here to tell me – why not just get out of town?"

Mark gave him a sardonic look. "Moving on takes money; hiding takes even more. I thought you might be grateful enough for the heads-up to make a healthy donation to my travel fund. I got a good gig lined up in Jersey, but I have to get there first."

"What's the gig?"

Giving him a smug smile, Mark replied, "I, uh, repossess beautiful cars from people too stupid to take good care of them. I'm real good at it, too, with a rep of being the best on the East Coast. And, for the right price, I do a bit of driving, when it has to be fast and loose." Chuckling lightly, he added, "It's a living. A good living, with lots of fancy ladies and the things that make life … pleasant."

"Uh huh," Mickey grunted. Silence fell and lengthened as he studied McCormick. "So, if you were me, what would you do about Hardcastle?" he challenged.

With a lazy half-grin, Mark held up his hands. "Hey, man, your business is your business. I'm not here to tell you what to do and I really don't care." Glancing at the building, he shrugged. "Moving costs can be prohibitive, though. There's probably a cheaper and more permanent solution to the problem."

Uncrossing his arms, Mickey hooked his thumbs in his belt, and his posture relaxed. Another slow smile grew, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, I'll give you this, McCormick. Coming down here on your own, not knowing whether I'd be grateful or not – well, you've got big ones. I like that."

Mark just quirked a brow. "Like it well enough to make a donation to the Mark McCormick 'See the Country' Fund?"

Mickey snorted a laugh, a cold and hollow sound that wasn't pleasant to hear. "I could maybe use a guy like you," he replied. "You sure you want to go back East? Gets cold there in the winter."

Swallowing the urge to laugh hysterically, Mark shook his head. "I appreciate you asking but there's no percentage for me in hanging around here, not so long as I've got Hardcase crowding my ass. The old coot is tenacious and I don't like living any place where I have to continually look over my shoulder."

"Well, like you say, moving is an expensive proposition. There are cheaper and more permanent solutions," Mickey returned, parroting his words.

All trace of humor gone, Mark nodded with sober agreement. "Yeah," he allowed, his tone tight, dangerous and cold, "there are. Don't think I didn't consider another option – but I'd be the first one the cops would go looking for. Next thing you know, I'd be back to looking over my shoulder all the damned time."

Once again silence fell as Mickey stared at him with those empty eyes.

Mark stared right back without flinching, his expression flat. His only concession to the game of dominance and subtly giving the win to Mickey was to slightly arch one brow in enquiry, mutely acknowledging that Mickey was the one who would determine where this particular game was going.

The gang leader pursed his lips and then nodded slowly. "You know the security codes to get through the gate of the estate and into the house?"

"I do."

"You willing to sell them?"

"I am, for the right price."

"Name it."

"Fifty big ones … and," Mark continued, allowing himself a cocky grin, "of course, my reward – which is for you to determine, based on how much you value the information." He paused and then added, "Oh, and I'd appreciate some assurances that the code wouldn't be used until I'm someplace else, a long way from here."

Laughing, Mickey sauntered closer and clapped him on the shoulder. "I like you, McCormick. You're no fool, but you're not afraid of risk. You ever want to come back to this neck of the woods, you let me know."

Mark's relief was so vast that he felt his knees go weak, and he was seriously afraid he might give himself away. But he took a long, slow breath and managed to nod, as if giving thought to the offer. "So, when do we make the trade?"

"Right now," Di Angelo replied, waving to Goliath. "Sim, come over here." He moved a few steps to meet the big man, and they talked together quietly. The human monolith nodded and strode toward the building. Mickey called to Mark, "It'll just be a few minutes."

"Fine, take your time," Mark offered magnanimously, though the itch to get the hell out of there was making him twitchy inside. He knew time was seeping away and, though he couldn't be absolutely sure what Hardcase was up to, he'd bet good money that the cops were closing in on the place. He wanted to be long gone and out of the line of fire before they showed up.

Besides, he still wasn't entirely sure the Angel of Death really did plan to let him walk away.

The minutes trickled past with agonizing slowness. All too conscious of the vicious men who surrounded him and the viper who waited silently, watching him with that reptilian gaze, Mark could feel his palms growing damp. Affecting an air of tolerant boredom, he stuck his fists in his jacket pocket so he could wipe the skin dry on the fabric, just in case Mickey wanted to shake hands to cement their deal.

Finally, Goliath emerged from the building and Mark dared to hope he was nearly home-free.

Then, from the alley, he heard a familiar gravelly voice snap, "Hey, hey, quit yer shovin'!"

His blood ran cold and his stomach plummeted. Nausea spiked and he thought he just might be sick there and then. So close. He'd come so close to getting away with it.

Swallowing the bile that burned the back of his throat, he turned with the others to gaze at the mouth of the alley and, a heartbeat later, Hardcastle came into view, stumbling a little after the thug behind him gave him another hard push.

"Look who we found sniffing around," the ruffian called. "Thought you'd want us to bring him by for a visit."

Angel smiled and nodded. "You thought right," he replied. "Good work." He glanced at McCormick and his expression hardened. "Funny Hardcastle should show up here."

Mark shook his head and sighed as the gang member pushed the Judge toward them. "I told you he was stubborn, and that he'd figured out something was going down in the area. Stupid old geezer, coming here in the middle of the night to snoop around. I swear he's either crazy or senile." With a sorrowful smile, he shrugged. "Guess I won't be seeing that fifty thousand, huh?"

"Guess not," Mickey agreed. "Don't need those codes now."

"McCormick! What the hell!" Hardcastle exclaimed and then he sneered. "Figures I'd find you hanging out with this scum. You never were any good."

Mark cast a look of loathing at Hardcastle and then returned his gaze to Di Angelo. Jerking a thumb at Milt, he grated, "The jackass has been screwing up my life for years. Why should tonight be any exception?" Grimacing, he eyed The Angel. "What about the reward?"

Mickey spread his hands. "Too bad, McCormick. You almost left here a rich man."

"Yeah, yeah, story of my life," Mark grunted, disgusted. "God, I hate that man. For two cents, I'd –" But he cut himself off, as if too angry to speak.

"Two cents, huh?" Di Angelo echoed, sounding amused, though Mark knew the man had to be suspicious. The coincidence of the Judge showing up when he did was just a bit too much for even the most credulous person to swallow – and Mickey wasn't stupid. Warily, Mark watched him scrabble in the pocket of his jeans, and then hold out two dark coins. "I think I spare you the change," he said, a taunt in his voice – and a threat.

"You won't get away with this," Hardcastle snapped. "Sure, you can kill me. But Lady Justice is a mean old broad. She'll hunt you down."

"Oh, shut up," Mark snarled, as if sick to death of the sound of the Judge's voice. He looked at Mickey and the pennies in his hand, and heaved a sigh. "Sure, why the hell not?" he agreed, reaching out to take the coins. "I'm not carrying. You got a piece I can use?"

Hardcastle's eyes widened and he looked a little disconcerted. "You know, McCormick," he said heavily, "I figured you for a lot of things, but I never thought you were a killer."

"Yeah, well, there's a whole lot about me you got wrong, Hardcase," Mark retorted as he took the revolver Mickey held out to him and hefted it, testing its balance. Glancing at Di Angelo, he let a cold smile twist his lips. "Hardcastle stole more than two years of my life from me. Guess it's finally payback time." He let his gaze drift to the dumpsters that stood along the back wall of the building, and his smile grew. "And maybe even time to have a little fun," he murmured with what he hoped to hell sounded like cruel satisfaction. Giving Mickey a provocative sidelong look, he asked with just a hint of challenge, "What do you think? Time to take out the garbage?"

Mickey pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. In the flare of the match, Mark saw rabid excitement in the other man's eyes and, with a surge of revulsion, he understood that Mickey could feel something after all. The man very obviously got a sexual charge from watching someone die.

Blowing a long plume of smoke, Mickey nodded. "Sure, why not?" Waving toward the rusted metal containers, he added, "Be my guest."

His gaze falling away, Mark gave him a slight nod, and then turned toward Hardcastle. Gesturing with the revolver, he ordered with icy contempt, "Over there, Hardcase. Now."

His lip curling, Milt gave Mark a hard stare. He seemed about to say something, but then swallowed hard and turned away to walk slowly toward the dumpsters … and the alley beyond.

Mark paced after him with the sinuous grace of a panther on the hunt. Passing beyond the ring of men who had surrounded them, gaining on the Judge, he called, "C'mon, Hardcastle, pick up the pace. You can move faster than that." As they approached the closest dumpster, he moved up close enough to plant the palm of his hand in the middle of Hardcastle's back. He gave a slight shove and then another, forcing the Judge to walk a little faster, and ever further from the gang behind them. Mark felt a tingling in his back, and he knew he'd pushed as far as he was going to get. "Dammit, Judge," he cursed, low and desperate, "would you quit stalling and _RUN!_"

Hardcastle lunged toward the mouth of the alley. McCormick lifted his weapon, his elbows locked, as if he was going to shoot him in the back. Ice seemed to fill his veins; his gut clenched and his heart twisted with the sheer terror of what he was about to do. He counted a beat, and then another, buying Hardcase as much time as he could. Behind him, he heard Mickey snarl, "Shoot him!"

Another beat more, and Mark whirled, bringing his weapon around to bear on the gang, his heart pounding and his breath locked in his chest at how very many there were arrayed against him. All his instincts shrieked that he hit the ground, present a smaller target, but he couldn't – he was all that was between Hardcase and the murderous gang.

As his finger tightened on the trigger, he felt sick and scared, and hollow with the horror that he might actually kill someone, something that he had never, ever wanted to do; had hoped would never be required of him. But he knew he had to shoot; he had no choice. Their lives depended on it, the Judge's anyway. Given he was up against nearly twenty armed men, he didn't have any illusions about his own odds of survival. All he could do was stay on his feet as long as possible to buy the time to save Hardcastle, a far better man than he could ever be.

But, dear God, he really, _really_ didn't feel ready to die.

His throat tightened, but he forced down the bile that threatened to choke him. Breathing raggedly through his nose, he fought the tremble in his hands and arms, and kept his feet planted firmly, his body balanced. Just a few minutes – probably not even that long, maybe just seconds … just long enough to give the Judge a chance to get clear. He could hold on that long. He had to, just _had_ to. _Forgive me, for I have sinned,_ he prayed, his mind chanting the words, words he'd not thought of for years. _God, give me strength!_

Di Angelo shouted, "_Kill them!"_

Bullets whistled past and smacked into the dumpster near his head just as he began firing, wincing reflexively at the loud explosion of sound and the kick of the weapon in his hand.

o0o

Believing McCormick was right behind him, afraid there really wasn't time for them to reach the debatable safety of the alley, Hardcastle ran hard and fast for his life. Damn, but the kid had had him going for a minute or two there. He'd begun wondering if Frank had been right, if he'd been suckered again, seduced by his hopes for someone better, someone worth investing in. Reluctant to believe that, he'd then speculated briefly that, maybe, McCormick was just doing the sensible thing, saving himself if he could. Though the betrayal had hurt, Hardcastle hadn't really been shocked by it, just disappointed. But he'd had a really hard time swallowing the idea that McCormick would gun him down. Somehow, that just didn't sit well, didn't feel right. The kid wasn't a gunman. But he'd heard what McCormick had said, that he'd stolen those years from the kid's life and it was time for payback – and he'd been sorry to know that McCormick hated him that much.

The order to run had been a very welcome surprise, flooding him with relief and a sense of vindication. Okay, so maybe the kid was just an opportunist, willing to take a chance on escape when it was offered. There weren't many men, after all, with the guts to facedown certain death just because it was the right thing to do, and it wasn't like McCormick thought he owed Hardcastle anything. No, the kid was no hero, but at least he wasn't a complete coward, and at least he wasn't willing to shoot an innocent man, not if he had any choice whatsoever. Maybe they only had a slim chance of survival here, but he was glad, deeply glad, that Mark had chosen to go for it.

But the alley way was just too far, there was no way they were going to make it before bullets started blasting into their backs. What they needed was some shelter, a shield, where they could hold out, and shoot back, until the cops arrived. They couldn't be far away now. When he reached the end of the row of massive garbage containers, surprised that no one had yet started firing, Milt slid around behind the last dumpster, and yanked his pistol from his belt.

Looking back, squinting in the uncertain light cast by the flames, he saw the kid leveling his weapon at the gang, a lone man against nearly two dozen vipers, an image so starkly unexpected it robbed Milt of breath.

Only then did he realize that Mark hadn't pelted along with him.

And only then did he understand that the garbage bin wasn't his shield, the kid was – McCormick was standing between him and the gang, blocking their aim, keeping him safe, giving him the chance to survive, to escape into the alley behind him.

Even as awareness cascaded, he heard Di Angelo order the others to kill them. Appalled to see the kid just standing there, presenting too big a target, he yelled just as the shots erupted, "McCormick, don't be an idiot! Get down, dammit!"

Whether Mark heard him or not, he didn't know. Nor could he help – McCormick's body blocked him from the shooters – they couldn't see him, but he couldn't shoot them, either. The kid staggered, but kept shooting, kept trying to cover his escape, not realizing that Hardcastle had stopped and wasn't going another step without him. Milt spotted gang members edging to the side, out of McCormick's line of sight, and he opened fire on them, forcing them to drop and hug the ground.

The undulating cacophony of sirens suddenly split the night and he'd never been so glad to hear the blare of the cavalry in his life.

Someone shouted, "Police! Drop your weapons!"

The loud cough and whistle of more bullets filling the air heralded the arrival of cops streaming in through the alley behind him and from other dark passages around and behind the gang. He heard shots muffled by brick and distance, echoing from somewhere in the building above him, and he knew other cops had found the drug lab.

"C'mon, McCormick," he shouted, daring to believe it was almost over and, against all the odds, they'd both survived.

o0o

Mark's thoughts were fleeting in the chaotic microseconds of the firefight. He thought he'd heard Hardcastle shouting at him to not be an idiot, and a grim smile tugged at his lips, but he had no time to do anything but shoot back when Mickey gave the order to gun them down. Bullets kicked up chips of concrete from the ground around him, and whined as they ricocheted off the dumpster. He stumbled when something slammed into his leg, but he didn't fall, just kept laying down cover fire.

Mostly, he was amazed he wasn't already dead.

Sirens erupted close by, their insistent wail giving him a moment's bright hope that maybe – but he was driven back by a heavy punch in his chest …

… blinding white pain exploded in his head, crimson flared, and then there was only darkness.

o0o

"NOOO!" Hardcastle yelled in furious denial when Mark slammed hard into the side of the dumpster and his head snapped to the side. The kid hung there for a heartbeat … and then dropped heavily to the ground.

Impotent anger and grief swamping him, Milt's chest tightened, leaving him gasping for breath. So close. They'd come so damned close. Clenching his jaw against the urge to vomit, his line of sight now clear, he fired at the still resisting Dragons and, squinting through the darkness, tried desperately to see if McCormick was moving.

Time lost meaning as the battle raged on. Men screamed as they were hit, curses filled the air. More and more bodies fell in disjointed, boneless heaps, until the remaining Dragons gave up and, tossing their weapons away, lifted their hands above their heads, crying out, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

As suddenly as it had started, it was over. Though the cops approached warily, holding their firearms rigidly in front of them as they advanced and secured the scene, Hardcastle broke cover and scrambled to McCormick's side. Dropping to his knees, he reached out to check the kid's pulse at the base of his throat, and was nearly giddy with relief to discover Mark was still alive. His fingers came away sticky with blood that was still pumping from McCormick's head, drenching one side of his face and pooling on the cracked concrete under his head. When he saw blood bubbling on Mark's lips, he knew it wasn't good.

"I need help over here," he bellowed. "Officer down! Get an ambulance!"

Ripping open McCormick's shirt, he was frantically checking the kid's body for the other wound when he heard Frank's voice behind him. "_Officer _down? He's not exactly a cop, Milt."

"Maybe not," Hardcastle rasped, sickened by the potentially mortal wound in Mark's chest and trying hard not to think about the crimson river drenching Mark's face. Pressing down to stem the tide of blood, he grated, "But McCormick was acting under my direction and authority, so that makes him a deputized officer of the court. Dammit, where's that ambulance? He's bleeding to death here."

"You're lucky you're not down, too," Frank sighed as he holstered his weapon.

Milt's retort died stillborn when he was distracted by Di Angelo's curt, cocky shouts at the cop who was cuffing him and rhyming off his rights. "I'm telling you, I wasn't part of this. I was unarmed. McCormick had my gun! You can't hang any of this on me!"

Repulsed, Hardcastle called angrily, "That so, Mickey? Well, now, that's not quite the whole truth, is it? I _heard_ you order the rest of 'em to kill us. We got you this time, Di Angelo, and you're going down for murder if this man dies."

As he was hauled past, Mickey cast a look of disdain down at McCormick. "I hope he lives," he called, cold fury in his voice. "So I can have the pleasure of killing him myself."

"Get him outta here," Frank directed sharply, shoving Mickey away. "Charge him as an accessory to the murders of the four DBs we found in the area over the last two weeks, conspiracy to commit murder, two counts of attempted murder, and the manufacture and possession of illegal substances. I'll sort out the details later."

A squad of ambulance attendants hauling gurneys spilled out of the alley. Milt yelled to get their attention, and urgently waved the closest team over. Moving stiffly out of the way to cede his place at Mark's side to someone who could help him, Milt accepted Frank's hand and rose to his feet. The noise around them, the shouts and activity faded into the distance as he focused all his attention on Mark, and what they were doing to keep him alive. They slapped a dressing on his head and pressure bandages to his chest and leg wounds – and only then did Hardcastle realize McCormick had also been bleeding heavily from his right thigh. An oxygen mask was slipped over his face, and his vital signs were hastily taken. An intravenous drip was started. And then they were lifting Mark onto the gurney, hurrying now as they blanketed him and belted him securely.

Fear twisted in the Judge's gut; fear that he might not see the kid alive again. Unable to bear the thought, without any real conscious awareness of what he was doing, operating now on instinct alone, Milt pressed the keys to his truck into Frank's hand and hastened after the gurney, intent upon riding to the hospital with McCormick.

Behind him, Frank looked down at the massive pool of blood on the ground and, sorrow and regret etched on his face, he shook his head. Spotting the revolver McCormick had been firing, he drew out his handkerchief and bent to pick it up, bagging it for evidence and to match the ballistics against bullets they'd eventually retrieve from the wounded and the dead. Then he turned away, to check on the other wounded, all gang members, and to ensure the crime scene was secure.

o0o

The back doors were barely closed before the ambulance lurched forward and sped off along the street, siren blaring. The attendant in the back with him silently handed Milt damp wipes, to clean off the sticky crimson stains on his hands. Gray with helpless anxiety and the exhaustion creeping over him, a massive lump filled his throat and his eyes burned as Hardcastle washed away the innocent blood that had been shed to save his life. A soldier, a former cop, he'd seen many men shot down, and he knew without being told that McCormick's chances weren't good.

As the attendant radioed information on McCormick's injuries and status, Milt listened to the harsh, wet sounds of Mark's labored respirations. Taking a shuddering breath, telling himself sternly that where there was life, there was also hope, he reached out to grip the kid's cold, limp hand and he held on. Just held on.

And prayed.

Prayed hard.

o0o

He wasn't surprised they wouldn't let him follow McCormick into the treatment area, but letting go of the kid's hand was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. Before he had time to overcome his disorientation, a clerk ambushed him with a clipboard and a stack of forms requiring completion, and she pointed him toward one of the torture devices devised of plastic that hospital personnel mistook for chairs.

"You need to fill these out for your son," she said, not unkindly.

"He's not my son," he replied heavily, surprised by the twist of pain he felt after he said the words. "He's a … he's a damned good friend." His throat closed then, and he stumbled away from her to the closest chair. For a moment, he just stared at the paper, the questions blurring, but he sniffed and impatiently swiped his eyes. He was a lawyer, a judge; he understood the import of paperwork. He could do this for Mark. Even if this was all he could do for the kid, he could do this.

Only … when he got past 'name' and 'address', he found he couldn't. Birthday? It was in the file, sure, but he didn't remember. Allergies? No idea. Previous hospitalizations? No clue. Family doctor? He shook his head, then put in the name of his own physician, Charlie Friedman. Next of kin? He frowned. From what he remembered of McCormick's history, he was sure the kid didn't have any family, none close, anyway. So, he put in his own name. And he did the same when he came to the box, 'To be notified in event of Emergency', as well as in the 'Employer' box. Insurance Number? He pulled out his wallet and found the information from the modest insurance coverage he'd arranged when he'd taken on responsibility for Mark, just in case. He'd reasoned then, and now regretted profoundly, that the work could hold some hazards and the occasional injury might happen. Well, it had happened, alright, and God, he was sorry.

Chewing on his lip, he wondered why he didn't know the rest of this stuff, though he knew some of it, at least, was in Mark's file in his desk. McCormick had been living and working with him for months now. Shouldn't he have some idea of birthday and family information? Not that there was any real reason. It was just supposed to be a working relationship. He'd never expected that they'd be friends, right?

_I never expected a lot of things,_ he thought, as his mind flashed on the memory of Mark standing between him and death.

His pathetic attempts at rationalization left a sour taste in his mouth. The kid was his responsibility, was living practically under his roof – and was maybe dying back there because he'd been doing what Milt had asked him do and more, had done his damnedest to save Milt's skin. Common courtesy and a little interest in another human being at some point in the last few months would have given him those answers. Heaving a heavy sigh, the only comfort he could offer himself was that McCormick wouldn't be able to answer these questions about him, either. And what did that say about the two of them, and how little they'd ever really talked in the weeks they'd known one another?

He closed his eyes as memories flashed, of the empathetic pain and surprise in Mark's eyes when he'd heard about Tommy, the soft sad understanding in those same eyes the day they left Sarah at the airport. Biting on his lip, Milt knew the kid would have been willing to have some of those more personal conversations, would have met him more than halfway in getting to know one another, but he'd shut McCormick down, had rejected the subtle offers of support. No, he couldn't blame the kid, not one bit, for the fact that they didn't know much about one another.

Well, he needed this information and he needed it now. Looking around, he spotted a bank of phones along the wall near the main entry. He wondered what it said about him that he knew the number for San Quentin, but didn't know the kid's birthday off by heart. Sure, sure, it was in his file at home, but that didn't help right now.

He dialed the operator and, after a bit of a wrangle and discussion with the night supervisor, he had the call charged to his home number. When the institution's operator answered, he asked for the Infirmary, and once he was talking with the night attendant, he had them pull McCormick's medical records. Standing awkwardly with the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear, he noted down the information about birth date, allergies (none), social security number, medical history and – no real surprise – confirmed there was no known next of kin.

Hanging up, he took the completed forms to the clerk at the desk. In return, she handed him a small bag with Mark's personal effects. "Sorry, the rest of his belongings wasn't salvageable," she apologized as he signed that he'd received the possessions.

Wandering back to the waiting area, he sat down and opened the small, plastic sack. Taking a breath, he drew out Mark's wallet which contained what was left of the hundred dollars he'd given the kid two nights before, his driver's license and the insurance card for the Coyote, and a single, old and very faded black and white photo of a pretty young woman with curly dark hair, clear eyes, and a sweet smile. Studying the picture, the Judge was pretty sure he was looking at Mark's mother, and he wondered what had happened to her. And he wondered why there was no similar photo of Mark's father. Slipping the wallet into his pocket, he again reached into the bag, this time drawing out Mark's watch and his Saint Jude medal, the patron saint of lost causes.

"You're no lost cause, kid," he muttered, his throat tightening as his fingers closed around the medal. "More like a diamond in the rough."

All that was left in the bag were five quarters and two tarnished pennies. Five quarters – five phone calls the kid never got a chance to make. And two pennies. Milt's memories swept back over the conversation he'd heard earlier that evening.

'_For two cents, I'd …'_

"Ah, God, kid," he rasped as he bent forward, bracing an elbow on his thigh and covering his mouth with his hand. He hadn't noticed in the heat of the moment; what Mark had done hadn't registered at the time. Milt had been too busy judging the man, deciding he didn't have what it took to stand and be counted when the chips were down. He'd been too caught up in his own disappointment that McCormick had turned out to be more like J.J. Beal than Milt had wanted to believe. Even when Mark had told him to run, he'd thought it was simply opportunistic behaviour, taking a chance to stand with the angels despite the risks. But now he realized that McCormick had adroitly engineered his escape, that his actions had been deliberate, willful – and with the full knowledge of what his choices would probably cost him.

The Judge felt deeply ashamed of his too hasty judgments, his readiness to believe the worst about the kid when, at the same damned time, during the same tense minutes, McCormick had been jockeying to get him out of there in one piece. But he'd just never expected this … loyalty. Never in the world ever expected that the kid would ever intentionally be so selfless as to be ready and willing to sacrifice his own life to save the guy who 'had stolen' more than two years of Mark's life. In a distant way, he felt a kind of vindication, that he'd seen something in McCormick, something that suggested he had potential. But, mostly, he just felt bad, real bad, that he'd never given the kid enough credit. And guilty, very guilty for having put Mark in such a dangerous situation without adequate backup.

His hands shaking, he slipped the watch, the medallion and the coins back into the bag, and stowed it in his pocket. Glancing at his watch, he saw that nearly an hour had passed since he'd last seen McCormick. What was going on back there? He looked around impatiently, for the first time really noting the others sitting around him, a woman with a fractious infant, another with a restless, feverish, whiny toddler, a group of worried, shell-shocked, disheveled teenagers in the corner – from an accident, maybe? An old man in a worn bathrobe, who stared with pale fear at the doors that led back into the treatment area, maybe worrying about his wife. Looking away to stare at the floor, Milt told himself that no news was good news. Meant the kid was still alive. Still holding on.

But, damn, he wished someone would tell him what was happening.

Restless, he got up to pace and found himself in front of the automatic coffee machine. Resignedly, knowing it was going to be a very long night and needing the stimulation caffeine promised, he got himself a cup of coffee. Returning to his seat, he blew over the hot liquid and sipped at it, grimacing at its bitterness. As a man of action, he hated this endless waiting, and the helplessness of not being able to do anything. And, as a man who was just discovering that he cared a whole lot more about a young man he'd hardly begun to get to know, he was afraid of what he might hear when someone finally appeared through those doors and called his name.

Minutes trickled by with pitiless indifference. The whining and wailing of the nearby kids flayed his already frayed nerves, and he had to struggle to contain his irritation. Poor kids were just sick and were waiting too long to be seen because … well because the staff was working on McCormick, engaged in a fierce struggle to keep him alive. At least, that's what Milt hoped they were doing. Someone came out and he stiffened, but it was the old man who was called with such compassion that the poor guy knew it was bad news and tears filled his eyes. Shaking his head, knowing that could be him, had been him twice two many times already, Milt turned his face away from the pathos of the moment. People arrived, calling out with worry or anger or concern, hugging one or another of the teenagers. He figured they were the parents, their relief that their kids were still alive stark and affecting. The rampant emotions around him – the memories they evoked – exacerbated his own, and he thought he might be a wreck by the time he finally got word.

Unwilling to lose his control, he sniffed and straightened his back. Squared his shoulders. McCormick was strong. Given half a chance, he'd make it. And they'd gotten him here pretty fast, so … so he had a good chance, right? At least, the chest and the leg wounds could be dealt with – the head wound … Milt didn't want to think about that and, again, willfully shut down his worries about it. Mark was hurt bad and would be hurting for some time to come. He was going to need a lot of support, so Milt knew he had to keep it together. He was all that kid had. Oh, there was Teddy, but he wouldn't be of much help except as an amusing distraction. And there was Flip Johnson's daughter – what was her name again? Milt was disgusted that he couldn't remember. But, regardless, she was back east at law school, so as much as she'd be worried about Mark, she wasn't around. Wasn't someone the kid could lean on.

_Well, he can lean on me,_ Hardcastle thought, and nodded decisively to himself.

But then he slumped in the chair. All the positive pep-talk wasn't easing his fear, or his guilt, or his overwhelming sorrow a bit. Wasn't really helping at all. Crumpling the empty coffee cup, he got up and tossed it in the trash can beside the machine. He was just heading back to that damned chair when the doors opened again and a nurse appeared. "Mr. Hardcastle?" she called, with a glance at the paper in her hand.

"That's me," he said, hurrying toward her, his heart hammering and the breath tight in his chest. "How's McCormick?"

"If you'll just come with me," she replied, waving him through, "the doctor's ready to see you."

He scowled, not liking the evasion, but reined in his desire to shake the information out of her. She was just doing her job. The fact that she wasn't telling him anything didn't have to mean the kid was … was …

She led him down the hall to an office behind the admissions area. Rapping on the open door, she said, "Dr. Meadows? Here's Mr. Hardcastle."

Cold with anxiety, Milt entered and looked at the physician – a guy who looked too young to be a doctor – dressed in rumpled green scrubs. "How's McCormick?" he demanded.

"He's just been taken up to surgery," the doctor replied, gesturing for him to sit down.

His knees having gone weak with the knowledge that Mark was still alive, Milt gladly complied. He wiped a trembling hand over his face and dragged in a deep breath before he leaned forward, his gaze intent upon the doctor's face. "So … how bad is it? What are his chances?"

"Your friend kept us pretty busy," Meadows replied with a small weary smile. "As I think you know, he suffered three wounds, all of which bled heavily. He came close to crashing a couple times, and it took us a while to get him stabilized enough for surgery. The wound in his thigh is the least severe – tore a lot of muscle but, with the right therapy, that should heal well. The chest wound is far more serious. His right lung collapsed, but we got it reinflated and put him on a ventilator – a machine to help him breathe. That's what they're doing now upstairs, removing the bullet and repairing the damaged lung, and maybe his leg as well, if he manages the surgery okay, and they think he can stay under that long. Otherwise, they'll patch up his leg later. The head wound was a deep laceration, all the way to the bone. Both the impact of the bullet and what looks like one or two other bangs to his skull have resulted in deep unconsciousness. He was lucky that it was only a glancing blow but … well, head injuries can be tricky. He was completely unresponsive to any stimuli. Much of that could be the result of shock and blood loss, but it's clear he sustained some head injury."

"What? You're saying he's in a coma?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying. What I can't tell you is how serious that is. He might wake up soon after surgery. Or, he might not."

"You mean, he might not wake up for a few days," Milt probed as he clenched his hands together.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not able to give you any specifics on what to expect – Mr. McCormick may need to be seen by a neurologist, and I'm sure his personal physician will make those arrangements quickly if he doesn't awaken spontaneously."

Hardcastle felt a deep chill wash over and through him as he searched the doctor's eyes and then looked away. He wasn't going to jump to conclusions here. Wasn't going to immediately assume a worst-case scenario. But he felt sick with foreboding. Rubbing his forehead, he frowned and nodded his understanding. Pulling the tattered shreds of his control around him, he asked gruffly, "Where do I go now? To wait to hear how he does in surgery?"

"It could be hours, Mr. Hardcastle. Why don't you go home and get some rest. You can see Mr. McCormick tomorrow."

Stubbornly, Milt shook his head. "No. I'm not leaving here until I know how he's doing." Standing, he went on, "Just tell me where to wait."

Meadows gave him an assessing look, and then replied, "Fourth floor. There's a waiting area just outside the entrance to surgery."

"Thank you," Hardcastle replied, and held out his hand. "And thank you for keeping him alive this far. I know he was in bad shape when we brought him in."

The doctor shook his hand. "It's none of my business, but… how did Mr. McCormick –"

"He was working on a murder investigation," Hardcastle cut in wearily, "and he … we … he was saving my life. That's how he got shot. Saving my life."

With that, Milt turned away and made his way back along the hall to the elevators.

_Might not wake up. Might not wake up._

The words pounded in his brain with every step, keeping time with the throb of his worsening headache. But his expression hardened as he punched the elevator button. "That's crap," he muttered, totally unwilling to write off Mark's chances. "There's nothin' in this world could keep _that_ kid from talking. He'll wake up. For sure, he'll wake up."

He paused, anxious fatigue lining his face, and he sighed as he watched the indicator light above the double metal doors. "He damned well better wake up," he grumbled, "so I can tell him what a dumb, damn-fool stunt he pulled, risking his life like that … and … and how much I appreciate it."

o0o

Hours later, he woke muddled and confused when someone shook his shoulder and called his name. Sitting up with a low groan against his stiff neck and back, he looked dazedly around at the bland waiting room and then blinked at the stranger standing beside him. "Ah, sorry," he mumbled, gathering his thoughts as he scrubbed his face. And then memory hit. Jumping to his feet, he demanded, "McCormick! How is he? Where is he?"

"He's out of surgery, Mr. Hardcastle, and in recovery. I'm Dr. Reynolds, the surgeon who operated on him. Physically, your friend is holding his own, and we'll be moving him to Intensive Care in an hour or so." The grizzled lean man gave him a bleak smile. "I just talked to Charlie Friedman, and he says he doesn't know Mr. McCormick but, when he heard your name, he said to tell you he'd be in to see his new patient later today – and he told me to tell you to go home to bed."

Milt snorted. "Ah, I'm alright," he retorted, waving off the advice. "I'm not going anywhere until I see McCormick. So, where's Intensive Care and, don't tell me, there'll be another waiting room there, right?"

"That's right," Reynolds assured him, sympathetic understanding resonating in his tone. "You'll find it up on the sixth floor."

"Thanks," Hardcastle nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. "Doc," he asked, with a hopeful look, "He's gonna be okay, right? I mean, I know his injuries are serious and everything, but he's gonna be fine, right?"

The surgeon reached out to grip his shoulder. "Your friend has suffered very serious injuries. He's very weak from the trauma and the loss of blood. Right now, his condition is critical. He'll be on a ventilator for the next few days but, barring infection, there shouldn't be any complications. Eventually, he's going to need some physical training for that that leg, and his chest will take time to heal. I talked to Charlie about Mr. McCormick's head injuries and he's going to have a neurologist see your friend. That's all I can tell you about that, other than we stitched up the wound and, since it's under his hair, there should be no visible scarring."

"Uh huh," Milt grunted, not happy about the continued concerns about the head injury. He was beginning to wonder what they weren't telling him. But, there was good news, too, and he was determined to hold onto it. Reaching out to shake Reynolds' hand, he said stoutly, "Thanks for stitching the kid back together. I mean that … thanks a lot."

"You're welcome, Mr. Hardcastle. I hope he'll be a lot better in a few days' time."

"So do I," he agreed with aching fervor as he turned away to return to the elevator and find the waiting room up on the sixth floor.

Nearly two hours later, long after dawn had become a bright, cheerful morning that was at odds with his grim thoughts and anxious worry, a nurse came to escort him to McCormick. Swallowing hard, he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders as he strode down the hall behind her. She stopped at a glassed-in cubicle, and waved him inside. "Just fifteen minutes, I'm afraid," she advised him. "Mr. McCormick needs to rest."

"Has he woken up?" Milt asked, almost afraid to look inside the cell-like room.

"No, not yet," she told him, and moved away.

Taking a breath, he faced the window and frowned, sorrow shadowing his eyes, at his first sight of McCormick in over seven hours. Moving to the doorway, and then inside, he studied the thick bandage wadded over the right side of Mark's head, held on by a band of gauze wrapped around his brow, leaving his hair sticking up around it like a clown's halo. There was another broad bandage around his chest, and a tube filled with bloody discharge sprouting from under the bandage disappeared over the far side of the bed. He couldn't see the dressing around Mark's thigh because his legs and hips were covered by a light, white sheet. Tubes ran from two plastic bags, one filled with blood and the other with a clear solution, to needles in his left forearm and hand. Another tube projected from his mouth, and it was hooked up to a machine that pumped and sighed in the corner. Yet another snaked from the catheter hidden by the sheet to a plastic bag hanging under the bed. Thin wires led from leads on his chest to another machine, monitoring his heartbeat. Under the stubble of his two-day beard, McCormick looked wasted, his skin sallow and his eyes sunken in dark circles.

Stopping by the side of the bed, Hardcastle reached out to lightly grip Mark's bare shoulder. "You look like hell, kid," he murmured, his voice thick. "But, hey, you're still here, right? You'll be okay."

Struck by how cool Mark's skin felt, he looked around for a blanket and spotted one on a shelf over the sink. He shook it out and carefully, very gently, covered McCormick.

Not sure what else to do, he chewed on his lip as he studied Mark's face. "The doctors tell me they aren't sure when you're gonna wake up. But that's okay. What you need most right now is rest, right? You'll wake up when you're ready. Just, uh, I know how much you like to sleep in. So … so don't push it – be good if you woke up, just for a bit, you know? To show 'em all that you're fine."

There was no response to his voice. Not a twitch, no eye movement under the lids, nothing. His lips thinning, Milt sat heavily in the old leather chair by the bed. "I don't mind saying," he rumbled, his voice low and hoarse, his head bowed and his hands clasped, "you scared me last night, bleeding all over the damned place. You're still scaring me, McCormick. 's not just the doctors that'd like to see you awake, you know?"

Looking up, his eyes red-rimmed, he shook his head slowly. "That was a damned-fool thing you did. Hell, I'm more'n twice as old as you. You shouldn't've done that, risked getting killed to save me. Shouldn't've done that." Reaching out, he closed his fingers around Mark's. "But … but I'm grateful, kid. And … and I'm real proud of you. You got what it takes, McCormick. You're a good man."

His throat tightened and he drew back, sniffing, to wipe his eyes. "But we got a deal, an' I'm holdin' ya to it. So ya got to get better, ya hear? You will. I know you will. I'm counting on that and … and my bet's on you, that you won't quit on me. An' in the meantime, I'm here, kid. Whatever you need, I'm here."

"Mr. Hardcastle? I'm sorry, but your time is up."

He looked balefully at the nurse, but he stood, his shoulders bowed with exhaustion. Once more, he reached out to cover Mark's hand. "I have to go now, Mark. But I won't be far away. You … you just rest and concentrate on getting better."

A few minutes later, he was flipping dispiritedly with no real interest through a magazine, when a familiar voice cut into his thoughts. "I thought I'd find you here."

Looking up, he saw Charlie shaking his head and giving him a pained look. "I'm not leavin' till we know for sure that McCormick is gonna be alright," he said stubbornly.

Charlie cocked a brow. "That could be some time yet, Milt," he challenged with asperity mingled with kindness. "Wearing yourself out won't make him get better any faster. Go home. Get some sleep."

Milt looked away. "He's in there because of me," he said, his voice hoarse and unsteady. "I don't wanna leave him, you know?" He looked up at his physician and old, old friend. "The kid's important to me, Charlie. An' … an' I owe him."

Friedman sat down beside him, and looked at him curiously. "You're not telling me _you_ shot him?"

"No, of course not!" Hardcastle exclaimed with more of his usual irritable impatience. When he saw the smile playing around Charlie's mouth, he knew he'd been had, and he rolled his eyes. Sinking back in his chair, he went on, "But what happened is my fault, was because of me. I sent him on an assignment that I knew was dangerous. But that's not all of it. He was shot saving my life, Charlie. Protecting me."

"Sounds like this McCormick is someone I'm going to like," Charlie replied. He lifted a hand to grip Milt's shoulder as he went on, "Did he know the assignment was dangerous?"

"Yeah," Milt admitted grudgingly.

"And he's a grown man, right? Thirty years old, I understand."

"More like an overgrown puppy most of the time," he grated with more fondness than feigned irritation.

Charlie squeezed his shoulder and then stood. "Well, sounds to me like he knew what he was doing. And if he worked that hard to save your life last night, I doubt he'd be happy about you hanging around here, wearing yourself out, when he's got all the care he needs. Go home, Milt. You need to keep up your own strength if you're going to be of any use to him. I promise, I'll call you once the neurologist has seen him, and I'll make sure the staff know to call you if there's any need." After a beat, he added, "_And_ I'll take the best care of him that I know how to do. Seems the man saved the life of a good friend of mine. I owe him, too."

Dangerously close to tears, too tired to keep a firm lock on his emotions, especially in the face of his friend's clear understanding, Milt clamped his jaw tight and blinked hard. Taking a shuddery breath, he pushed himself to his feet. "Okay, okay," he finally managed to say. "I'm trustin' ya here, Charlie. I'll go home, like you say, and get some sleep. But I'm comin' back this afternoon, and I'm gonna pretty much stake this place out until … until I know he's really gonna be okay." Giving his friend a hard look, he went on, "But you take damned good care of him, and make sure everybody else does, too. I know there's some who'll see his medical history, see he did time, an' that might make a difference." His voice cracked but he forged on. "He's a good man an' he deserves the best. And, and if … if there's any problem with his insurance, I'll cover whatever is needed."

Charlie pressed his lips together and nodded as he looped an arm around Milt's shoulders, gently guiding him toward the exit. "I'll make sure he's treated right," he assured Hardcastle. "Don't you worry about that."

o0o

Mark couldn't figure out what was going on, but the Force 10 headache thundering in his skull made it damned hard to think; impressions and feelings were all mixed up in a kaleidoscope of whirling sounds and sensations, fleeting, confusing. His chest felt like he'd been stomped by a _really_ big horse that was _still _standing on him, making it very hard to breathe, except air kept pushing into him anyway. And, so far as he could tell, his leg seemed to be on fire, which worried him a lot in an odd, detached kinda way. But he couldn't see, couldn't check it out, because he was lost or floating in some kind of thick, black fog that was pierced at irregular intervals by blinding flashes of light. He tried to call out, but he must be gagged, and his body felt so heavy, like he was nailed to … what? The fog? There was something in his mouth and throat … and that was more than a little scary, but he couldn't seem to hold onto the fear. Everything just seemed to be slipping away, hazy and muddled and … God, he hurt; worse than he could ever remember hurting before.

Amidst the waves of pain, somewhere in the distance, he could hear an annoying, high-pitched beeping that never seemed to stop, a dull whoosh and thump that went on and on and, sometimes, voices, people calling to him; he tried to answer but then he'd drift away.

And he was cold. Not freezing but … cold. Until, all of a sudden, warmth fell over him and he could have wept in relief. Dumb, to feel like crying just 'cause he was finally warm. At one point, he was sure he heard Hardcase saying something about doing some damn-fool thing, which made him think the old donkey was close by, yelling at him; par for the course so no surprise there. The words drifted into the fog, a low rumble of reassuring, familiar sound he couldn't quite make out, though he tried. But then he heard Hardcastle say he was proud of him, and that didn't make any sense, so he figured he had to be dreaming.

Not a fun dream, though, even with the Judge saying such amazingly and _totally_ unbelievably nice things, so he'd really like to wake up ... or maybe just let the dream go and sink into deeper sleep, where the godawful pain couldn't touch him …

Every once in a while, he could feel ghosts touching him, strange hands but gentle, reassuring in an eerie, surreal way. Too, too weird. Had to be dreaming.

_God,_ he thought blearily, _if this is the hangover,_ _it must've been one hell of a party. No wonder Hardcase is pissed off. _

Too weary to keep trying to wake up, hurting too bad to want to be awake, the incessant beeping and whoosh-thump driving him crazy, feeling distinctly sick but pleasantly warm, he let himself sink back into the fog.

o0o

Milt really didn't think he'd be able to sleep, nor did he especially even want to, but he dutifully climbed into bed and, as soon as his head hit the pillow, exhaustion swamped him, carrying him deep.

When he woke, hours later, he felt numb, shell-shocked – and not a little guilty for having slept so long when McCormick was …

He cut the thought off and pushed himself up and onto his feet. He had reasons enough to feel guilty without beating himself up because his body needed to rest. And McCormick must still be holding his own, or someone would have called him. So that was a good thing, right? Right.

After he showered, shaved and dressed, he went down to the kitchen and, though he wasn't hungry, he forced himself to drink a glass of orange juice and eat some cereal. Carrying a mug of coffee into the den, he pulled McCormick's file out of his desk drawer. But before he opened it, he called Charlie's office and left a message for his doctor and friend to call him back.

Flipping open the file, he paged through the documents, looking for the man who had stood so tall the night before, using his body to shield another. Where had _that_ man come from? Frowning, he read the basic history again, that the kid was an only child, orphaned when his mother, Donna, had died when he was ten. Nothing about any father. Lived for a few years with an aunt and uncle, but kept running away. Made the rounds of foster homes but he was still running away. _Running away from what?_ the Judge wondered. In and out of juvie. Picked up for joy-riding one too many times, and spent eighteen months in a correctional facility, getting out just after he turned eighteen, which was why it was in his adult record. A job repossessing cars, which made Milt shake his head. The kid was sure fixated on cars. Then, the beginning of his racing career, driving for Flip Johnson. Kept his nose clean until he wound up in front of Hardcastle for stealing the Porsche.

And the rest he knew. Three years of hard time, starting out in Clarksville and then in San Quentin, with an inexplicable short side trip to Joliet for good measure. Sighing, Milt closed the file, and turned to stare out the window. Sure wasn't anything there that would explain what had happened the night before. But he frowned, remembering the patrol cop McCormick had pulled from the wrecked, burning vehicle, blowing his chance to get away clean with stealing with Coyote. That rescue of the cop was ultimately why Hardcastle had taken a second look at him. It wasn't the kind of thing your run-of-the-mill crook would do. That had been an act of decency that had revealed a man with a conscience, and one that cared about other people, even a stranger who was chasing him, a stranger who could lock him up and pretty much throw away the key.

But that still didn't get him any closer to understanding how that man had turned out to be decent … and brave. Very brave.

The phone rang, disrupting his thoughts.

"_Milt, it's Charlie. Your boy is doing okay. No better, really; not yet. But holding his own."_

"Did you get a neurologist to see him?"

"_Sheldon Mathias – good man, the best in the city – is going to examine him tomorrow."_

"And he hasn't woken up yet?"

"_Not yet, no."_

"Isn't that a bit odd, Charlie? I mean … well, shouldn't he be awake by now?"

He heard a sigh, and then his friend said, _"Mark suffered a great deal of trauma, Milt. His body is in shock. And, yes, he suffered at least two hard blows to the head – the gunshot wound and hitting the ground, for sure, but I think from the bumps on his head that he may have banged his head a third time."_

"On the dumpster. I saw it happen. His head snapped around and banged hard before he … before he fell."

"_So he knocked his brain around a bit – and he's got a pretty good concussion. All I'm saying, Milt, is that it could be a combination of shock, the weakness from blood loss, the trauma of the initial wounds, the surgery and the pain, as well as the blows to his head, that are all slowing down his response and recovery time. He needs to rest, get his strength back. And, if I'm wrong, if it's more than that, well, then, Shel will be able to tell us more tomorrow. But don't buy trouble, Milt. It's too soon to know for sure why he hasn't recovered consciousness." _

"So you're telling me I have to be patient."

"_That's exactly what I'm telling you."_

"I don't do patience very well."

Charlie chuckled. _"I know, Milt. I know. Just do your best and make sure you get enough rest, too. I don't want another patient on my hands. I'm a busy man, and Mark needs all the attention I can give him."_

"Yeah, okay, I hear you," Hardcastle replied, feeling unaccountably better for hearing Charlie's wry common sense. And his explanation of why Mark hadn't woken up made sense, too – and was a lot less scary than thinking it had to be some terrible head injury. "Thanks, Charlie. Look, I'm gonna go back to the hospital. I guess he doesn't even know I'm there but, well …"

"_Don't be too sure of that, Milt. People in coma states may well be able to hear what's going on around them. There's a good deal of evidence that suggests that hearing familiar voices, having people treat them as if they are awake, helps them come out of it faster. So, if you're going to be there anyway, talk to him. Can't hurt and might do a lot of good."_

Relieved to think there might be something he could do to help the kid, even if it was only talking, Milt almost smiled. "I'll do that, Charlie. Thanks, again."

"_My pleasure. I'll let the staff know you're coming and see if I can get them to let you stay with him. Don't think having a visitor there who cares about him is going to do any harm. I'll talk to you tomorrow, after Shel has had a chance to see him."_

After he ended the call, Milt put away the file that had facts but no real answers, and locked the drawer. He was just about to leave when the phone rang again.

"Oh, Frank," he sighed with chagrin when he heard the caller's voice, and rubbed his forehead. "Sorry, I should have called you. Guess you need my statement."

"_Uh, yeah,"_ Frank drawled. _"But I was also calling about McCormick. The hospital isn't saying much. How's he doing?"_

"Hasn't woken up yet. But the doctor says he's holding his own," Milt reported. "I was just about to go back there, see for myself."

"_Okay, look, why don't I meet you there. I can take your statement and save you a trip downtown."_

"Thanks, Frank. I appreciate that."

o0o

Though bewildered, still dazedly drifting, Mark was increasingly unsure that he was stuck in the dream from hell … sure, nightmares could seem to go on forever, round and round, frustrating, scary. But this, this was different. Too much never seemed to change, like the black fog and that beeping, thump-whoosh thing, that made him think of something, only he couldn't quite … And the pain; God, who would _ever_ dream about being in such excruciating pain? Okay, so sometimes the pain changed, sort of – it drifted away a little, and then came back, on waves, like the sea. But it was still always there, so bad he wanted to scream. Only he couldn't, 'cause that gag was always there.

The voices came and went, sometimes the same, sometimes different, men, women, strangers. Hardcase … Hardcase had disappeared, so maybe that had been a dream. And the hands, they came and went, too. Fleeting. A touch on his wrist; sometimes, on his face, chest or his leg. At least the fire was out. Now, it was just a relentless throbbing to match the one in his head.

Why couldn't he move? Why the _hell_ couldn't he seem to wake all the way up? And what was stuck in his mouth and throat? His throat hurt, not like his chest or his head, but it hurt just the same. He couldn't see past the fog but now, along with the blinding flashes of light, he got other flashes of people, sounds, and feelings that confused him. Faces he knew he should recognize but he didn't want to remember them, so he flinched away; exploding chaos; flames and shadows … fear.

Hardcastle? Where … where was Hardcastle? He'd been mad in the dream … hadn't he? But there was something … something else. Had something bad happened? Something …

The cold he felt now was inside; fear, constant and inescapable, gnawing at him as relentlessly as the pain. Fear of what was going on, of what he couldn't figure out, didn't understand … and fear of something awful happening. Something … something he had to try to stop …

Helpless, so damned helpless. And frightened. Like a little kid. And he felt, childishly, humiliatingly, like crying. Wherever he was, whatever was happening, he was alone, so alone, always alone. He was so tired, so heartsore and sick of being alone. Seemed like he'd always been alone. His mother's face flashed, and he felt sorry, guilty for his thoughts. Wasn't her fault she was gone. But ever since … nobody, nobody had loved him since. Not true. Not true. Friends. There'd been friends. Were friends. So why was he alone? Where was Hardcase? Had something happened to the Judge? Something he should have stopped? Something terrible … Why were there only strangers?

Anger surged, borne of fear and frustration and hideous pain, then ebbed away into the fog that swirled and suffocated him, only air kept pushing in, filling his chest with daggers, then slipping away. Like waves. Fog, waves … but no water. No _anything_ that was real, except that beeping, whoosh-thump … and the pain.

He wasn't sure of anything much, but he was damned sure the _pain_ was real.

And the pain made him want with wretched desperation to drift away on the waves and fog …

Hands on his shoulder, his wrist. Warm hands, solid, not fleeting, staying.

"Hey, kiddo."

_Judge? Hardcase?_ Hope filled him. Warmth trickled down along his face and was brushed away.

"Ah, hey, shhh, it's okay, McCormick. Easy, kid. Easy."

_Hardcastle's back! And he's okay. Nothing bad happened. Wake up. Gotta wake up._

"Hear you've been havin' a good long sleep here, kid. But I wish you'd wake up."

_Trying. Pain's bad, Judge. Real bad. Too much. Too much._

"I'm sorry you're hurt so bad. I wish … guess it doesn't matter now. But it was dumb, to do that, McCormick. Brave, but dumb. Not that I'm not grateful. I am. An' … an' I'm real proud of you, too. But you didn't have to … you shouldn't've … ah, hell, kid. I'm sorry. I'm real sorry."

_Proud? Sorry? Don't understand. What …?_

"They're takin' good care o' ya, here. I know that. An' Charlie says you'll wake up when you're ready."

_Charlie? Who …? Wake up? Am I dreaming, Judge? I don't … I don't understand! Judge, please, tell me. What's going on? What's wrong with me? Why's it hurt so bad?_

"Charlie says I should talk to you, that it might help."

_Charlie's right._

"I wonder if you can hear me. If you know what's going on. You're in the hospital, Mark. You were hurt bad, but you're gonna be okay, ya hear? You're gonna be fine."

_Hospital? Hurt? _

Mark felt something like relief at the words. They made sense. Made sense of everything. Maybe not everything. But … those sounds, yeah, yeah, hospital sounds. Strangers … nurses? And he'd known the pain was real. But why couldn't he see? Was he blind? God, no, not blind. Please, please, not blind. And why … why did Hardcase think he was asleep? No … no, not the fog, not now. He didn't want to drift away. He wanted to wake up, dammit! But it was all slipping again, washing away, like the tide.

_Hardcastle? Hardcastle! Please, God, please, don't slip away …._

o0o

"Any change?" Frank asked, as he eased quietly into the cubicle.

Trying not to be discouraged, Hardcastle shook his head. "For a while there, when I first got here, I thought … but, no, no change."

Regret flitted over Harper's face and shadowed his eyes, and was as quickly gone as his expression settled into his more usual world-weary calm. "You got time now to give me a statement? If you don't want to do it in here, I checked with the staff and there's a vacant cubicle we could use down the hall."

Milt looked at Mark and shrugged. "I think here is okay. Doc Friedman says he thinks it's good for McCormick to hear familiar voices."

Hesitating, Harper gazed at McCormick. "If he can hear us, maybe we should go somewhere else. I don't want to leave any loopholes that would let the defense challenge witness collusion."

Waving off his concern, wishing that he _could_ believe that Mark was aware he was there, Milt explained, "I don't think you need to worry about that. If he can hear anything at all, it'd only be sounds, familiar voices. I doubt he's in any condition to make out words or make sense of anything. An' I don't think he'd remember, even if he did. He's in a coma, Frank. Totally unresponsive. I don't think he's hearing anything at all, to tell you the truth."

"Okay, then," Frank agreed, drawing a small tape recorder from his pocket and setting it on the overbed table that he slid between them. "Just let me get a chair and I'll be right back."

Once he was settled on a straight-back wooden chair, and Hardcastle was comfortable in the old leather chair, Frank turned on the machine, gave his name, Hardcastle's, the case number, and the date. "Milt, you know the drill. Just tell me in your own words everything that you know from personal knowledge about what led up to the shootings and the subsequent arrest of Michael Di Angelo and his gang, the Dragons, last night."

Hardcastle scratched his head, over his ear, as he collected his thoughts, and then methodically laid out the grounds for his suspicions that the recent murders in the area and the rumored designer drub lab were connected. From there, it was a smooth flow, from describing how he and McCormick had discussed Mark's insertion into the neighborhood and the gist of Mark's two calls, and his call to Frank before leaving to go downtown.

"I know that the message he gave me could be interpreted in different ways, but I … well, I believed Mark was in trouble and calling for help. So, I headed straight down there, going first to the place where he'd gotten a room, a dump called the Palace. I didn't want to be too obvious, you know – was trying not to give away the fact that we'd been in touch. So, I said a snitch of mine had spotted him in the area. The idiot clerk said he didn't know any such person, so I asked around on the street outside, loudly enough to attract attention 'cause I saw some Dragons hanging around near the bar next door, and then got back in the truck. I cruised slowly, like I was looking around, down and around the block, and then to just in front of the old Baxter Building. I know, I know – it was risky. Anyway, soon as I got out of the truck, two Dragons showed up and, pointing the business end of their revolvers at me, waved me through this dark alley along the side of the building."

Frank held up a hand, asked some clarifying questions about time, what the gang members had looked like, and stipulated that it had been the Baxter Building that McCormick had named in his last phone call. Then he waved at Milt to continue.

"Okay, well, when we got to the back of the building, about two hundred feet away, I saw fires burning in barrels to give some light, and a bunch, maybe fifteen or so, Dragons in their colors. McCormick was standing right in the middle of them all. When I got closer, I could see he was talking to Mickey, er, Michael Di Angelo." The Judge went on, detailing as accurately as he could the conversation he overhead between the two men, and how Mark had gotten possession of a weapon. And then he described how McCormick had successfully scammed to move them both away from the gang members, even if only by a hundred feet or so, before Mark had yelled at him to 'run'. His voice slowed and thickened, and he turned to look at McCormick as he described what he saw once he reached the shelter the dumpster provided.

Once again, Frank called a halt and turned off the machine. He poured some water from the jug on the table and passed the glass to Milt. "You okay?" he asked.

Hardcastle gulped down the water and set the glass aside. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he shook his head as he gazed at the young man in the bed. "I just can't figure out why he did it, ya know?" Turning to Frank, he leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "I went through his file and there's nothing there to suggest this man would do something like that. If anything, I've got some suspicions that he was abused as a pre-teen and later, which would generally mean he'd grow up not giving much of a damn about other people. Oh, I know, he pulled Carmine out of that burning patrol car a couple months ago, when he could've just kept going and never risked being identified, an' that shows he's got a conscience and he's not a killer. But … Frank, I'm the guy who sent him to prison and I _know_ he has never forgiven me for that. We've gotten along okay since I took him out to the estate and put him under my judicial stay, but … friends, we're not."

Scowling, Milt again studied Mark. "I just don't understand. He had to know that his strategy to cover me, so I could get clear, was probably going to get him killed. Why the hell would he be willing to _die_ for _me_?"

A small frown furrowed Frank's brow as he looked from Hardcastle to McCormick. "Maybe you need to ask him that question."

Milt grimaced. "You know, I don't think he'd tell me. I think he'd just turn it into some half-assed, smart-mouthed joke about the digs bein' good at Gulls Way or some damned thing."

"Well, maybe … maybe he's been around you long enough to decide your life was _worth_ saving, whatever the cost. You're, well, you're not the average guy, Milt."

Hardcastle snorted at that, but a tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, well, you know what? McCormick isn't 'the average guy' either, Frank. Not by a long shot; which is what he was. A long shot. But I think I hit pure gold." He paused and then, his voice low, confiding, he admitted, "Up till now, I've thought _he_ was the lucky one, to get a chance like the one I'm giving him. But … I'm beginning to think _I'm_ the one who got lucky the day he walked into my courtroom. This kid is, well, he's one of a kind, Frank. Special. This kid's got guts, an' … an' he's a damned good man. Little rough around the edges, maybe, but basically, he's got his head screwed on right."

Frank nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I thought you were out of your mind when you told me your ideas about rehabilitating ex-cons – and your experience with J.J. Beal only confirmed my doubts. I wasn't nearly as willing to believe in McCormick or give him the benefit of the doubt last night as you were. But I was wrong, and you were right. He's sure proven he's worth the faith you have in him. The trust you give him."

Milt didn't say anything because, the truth was, he'd been wary of trusting McCormick too far. For him, it had been even money as to whether the kid would do what he said, go downtown and check the area out, or catch the first bus out of town and just disappear. But he'd risked it because he wanted to know, needed to know, if Mark was a man he could trust.

Well, he'd found out. In spades.

With a nod to himself, he waved at the tape recorder. "Guess we should finish the statement, huh?"

Later, after Frank had left with the promise to return with a type-written document for him to sign, Hardcastle stood by the bed. Gently, he reached out to brush Mark's curls off the bandage over his brow, and, for a moment, he let his hand settle on the kid's head. His brow furrowed as he thought of the tears he'd wiped from the kid's face soon after he'd first arrived. He'd hoped that it meant that McCormick was waking up, though he'd felt sick that the kid was in so much pain that he was crying. But Mark hadn't roused, and now Milt found himself wondered what those tears had meant, if anything. What was going on under those curls. Was McCormick hurting … scared?

Milt sighed as he studied Mark's haggard face. He was so young yet; had his whole life in front of him. Given half a chance, he could be anybody he wanted to be. With a little help. With someone to believe in him.

"You're a good kid, McCormick," he murmured.

Shifting his hand to lightly grip Mark's shoulder, manfully resisting the urge to shake him, he said more forcefully, "But I'm getting sick of you sleeping on the job, you know? I want you to wake up, Mark. I want … I want to _know_ you're okay. You hear me?" But when there was no response, his tone was sad as he went on, "No, you don't hear squat, do you, kid? Guess Charlie's right. You'll wake up when you're good and ready, no matter what I want."

Turning away, he sank into the chair. But Charlie had also said that talking might help, so he had a responsibility to keep voicing his thoughts aloud. "When you do wake up, an' you're feeling a little better, we have to have a serious chat, McCormick," he said, his voice low and shaking a little with the force of his emotion. "This unexpected tendency you've got toward self-sacrifice isn't gonna work here. There's no way that you're ever going to do something this dumb and this … noble, again. I won't allow it. An' the Parole Board would have my hide if they thought I was using you as some kind of human shield. You're not _expendable_, McCormick. You got that? You're _not_ expendable."

o0o

Fiercely determined to hold on, to not let go and drift away, Mark struggled against the pain that ate at him, burrowing into his chest like acid, gnawing at his leg and head. He could hear the rumble of Hardcastle's voice, so close … so damned close that he just knew the Judge was right there, next to him. But the fog kept swirling and the relentless beeping and whoosh-thump eroded his ability to concentrate, so he found it hard, so hard, to hear the words. What was Hardcase saying? Had to be important – or, at least, maybe Hardcastle was saying more about what happened. Mark was desperate to know what was going on. Where he was. How badly he was hurt – because he sure in hell felt like he must be half-dead. Why? How had he ended up in a hospital? And why, God, why couldn't he seem to wake up???

But it was so hard to fight. The pain seemed to get worse in proportion to how much he resisted it. So, in despair, he finally had to give up and just float, letting the fog come and go.

Though it was weird, once he stopped trying to hear, stopped fighting and being so frustrated, he heard more. Oh, not everything. Pieces here and there, some words that made sense and other stuff that only added to his confusion. Exhausted, he just let the sound of the Judge's voice and the words wash over him, catching what he could, like flotsam foaming up onto the beach of his mind.

He heard 'dragons' and pictured mythical winged beasts that breathed fire, until he heard the name 'Di Angelo', and he again felt the chill of fear. Gang members. Surrounded by gang members. Flashes of memory, flickering firelight, scarlet bandanas, tattoos. _Dragons_.

Other words and phrases stuck, 'going to get him killed' … 'die for me.' Was that how he got hurt? Why he was in so much pain? He'd done something, something … he couldn't remember. Just couldn't remember. Then, 'got lucky when he', and 'struck gold'. 'Special' … 'got guts' … 'damned good man.'

Funny, sounded like that other dream, vague now, but he remembered because Hardcase had said some nice things. _Maybe_, he thought, wretched with disappointment, _this is just a dream, too._

Time drifted. He heard another voice, a stranger, both his and Hardcastle's voices rumbling in the distance. Seemed a long way away. Tired, so damned tired. So tired of hurting so bad. Mark let the words tumble and drift, unable to reach for them … no longer sure they meant anything.

He was sliding back into the fog when he felt Hardcastle's hand on his head and then his shoulder; Hardcase telling him to wake up. He tried, but it was too hard. Too hard. He couldn't ….

Just before the fog dragged him down, he heard 'noble' … and 'you're _not_ expendable'. The Judge's voice was low and raw, shaking, and maybe that's why he'd caught the words, or some of them. Not expendable. _Not_ expendable.

God, he hoped this wasn't just a dream. Would be great if … if the Judge meant that. Really great.

But, as the darkness sucked him down, away from the pain, he thought, _Nah … wishful thinkin'. No way … no way would Hardcase … not 'noble'. Not 'bout me. Other guy. Talkin' t' th' oth'r guy_

o0o

Milt stayed through the rest of the afternoon and late into the evening, talking until he was hoarse about anything and everything that came to mind, whether it was something McCormick would find interesting or not. He talked about cases he wanted to pursue, the bad guys that had gotten off on one technicality or another, detailing the reasons why he thought he had to go after them, but get them legally, and how he thought they might do that. And he talked about fishing, his favorite creeks and rivers, about maybe flying into the high, rough country with an old friend of his, Buzz Bird. Which led him to regaling McCormick with stories about Buzz, how they'd come to meet in the war … though he hesitated and redirected his thoughts and words away from that time in his life.

"You like to fish, kid?" he asked, and then smiled wistfully. "Ah, what would a kid from Jersey know about fishing? But I'll teach ya. You'll see. You'll love it, McCormick."

He hadn't talked this much about himself in years. Not since … not since Nancy had died. "You would'a liked her, McCormick. An' she would've liked you, too," he sighed, the old ache in his heart flaring and thickening his throat, reddening his eyes. Thinking about Nancy, he couldn't help but think about his son, too, all the hopes he'd had, all the dreams for the all the days of his boy's life. "He was a good kid, Mark. A real good kid."

Sighing heavily, he stood to stretch his arms and back, rubbed the back of his neck. He studied McCormick, race car driver, ex-con, and sidekick. Tonto. Wouldn't be right to start thinking that maybe he had another shot, here. A chance to see some of those dreams realized. Not fair to his son's memory. Not fair to McCormick, for that matter. He was his own man and had to make his own choices about where he wanted his life to go. But there was no reason that Milt could see that he couldn't help out, maybe. Not like McCormick had anyone else in his life. Why had he run away so often? Had he been running from something – or to something? Trying to escape or chasing after dreams of something better?

Scratching his chin, he'd bet that there'd been good reasons for the running, but that McCormick hadn't just been running away. No, this kid knew how to dream. Damned shame that he messed up over that Porsche. Stupid, really, but human. McCormick wasn't the only guy in the world who tried to get away with a little insurance fraud. Now, if he'd been caught for that, he'd've gone away for a lot more than three years. Milt wondered if the kid knew that. Knew that if he had to be caught, he got off lucky.

"Hard to think of two years in the pen an' another under close supervision as lucky, though, huh, kid?" he murmured, reaching out to lay his hand on Mark's brow before he quite realized what he was doing. "You gotta wake up, Mark. Ya hear? You got your whole life ahead of you. You don't want to sleep it away."

When Frank came back with the statement, Hardcastle read it over and signed it off.

"Any change?" Harper asked.

Wearily, Milt shook his head. "No, no, nothing. But, he's no worse an' I guess that's a good sign. They were afraid of infection but he's doin' okay. He's strong and healthy. I gotta think that's helping him now."

"I'm sure it is," Frank agreed, glad to be able to offer his old friend some encouragement. "You going home soon?"

Milt sniffed and nodded. "Yeah. Can't see as I'm doin' all that much good here. I'll walk out with you. Just, uh, give me a minute."

While Frank waited in the hall, he patted McCormick's shoulder. "I'm goin' home to bed, McCormick. Leave you in peace for the night. But I'll be back in the morning. Maybe … maybe you'll feel like wakin' up then, huh? I hope so, kid. I really hope so." He squeezed Mark's fingers gently and then, his shoulders bowed and his gait slow and stiff, feeling old and tired, he walked away.

He didn't see the lax hand twitch, or the fingers lift with feeble weakness as if struggling to reach him, to draw him back.

o0o

The next morning, Milt arrived just as the neurologist, Dr. Sheldon Mathias, was discussing Mark with Charlie.

Brightening, determined to be hopeful, Hardcastle asked, "So, any change? Whaddaya think?"

Charlie turned at his voice and quickly introduced him to the specialist, who hesitated and then said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Hardcastle, but I'm not sure I should be discussing Mr. McCormick's condition with you. Do have some legal authority, a power of attorney?"

"Well, no, not exactly," Milt explained. "McCormick's under my judicial authority … it's okay, you can tell me how he's doing. I'm responsible for him."

"Responsible for him? My understanding is that he was a fully competent adult before his injuries. No, I'm sorry. Until such time as you can demonstrate legal authority over Mr. McCormick's affairs and person, then I don't think it's proper to discuss his case with you." Briskly turning back to Charlie, he went on, "Let me know in a day or two how things are. If need be, I'll take another look at him then." And then he left the small room, striding off down the hall.

Furious, Hardcastle turned to Friedman. "Why that –"

"Easy, Milt. He's right and you know it," Charlie soothed with a calming gesture. "I'm in violation of Mark's privacy in discussing him with you, too. But … given the circumstances, I'm hoping he wouldn't mind."

Doing his best to swallow his ire, Milt growled, "Just so long as _somebody_ tells me how he's doing."

Taking a breath, Charlie said quietly, "There's been no change since yesterday."

Frowning, Milt turned his face away as he struggled to contain his disappointment and his fear for Mark. Jerking his thumb at the hall, he asked gruffly, "What did Dr. High and Mighty think?"

"That's the good news," Friedman offered with a thin smile. "There's no change but Shel doesn't think Mark is all that deeply under. There are four stages of coma, Milt. The deepest, stage four, means there is no evidence of any brain activity, none. No reflexes, no ability to swallow, no pupil reaction to light. At the lightest level, stage one, the patient's reflexes are intact, he reacts to pain stimuli, pupils react to light, and he can swallow and breathe on his own. Mark's on a respirator, but that's more to help his lung heal and to take the burden of breathing off his system. Shel is going to recommend they remove his respirator this morning, if the surgeon agrees. He thinks Mark is somewhere between the first and second levels of coma. But Mark _is_ in there, Milt. His brain is functioning."

Looking away, the Judge remembered the tears. "Uh, Charlie," he said, turning back with a frown, "yesterday, well, when I first got here, the kid … well, he started to cry."

Friedman's brows arced, but then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything; could be involuntary tears."

"Involuntary? You mean 'cause he's suffering?" Milt asked, feeling a twist in his chest.

"No, no, well, maybe," Charlie replied and shrugged. "There's no way of knowing."

Unhappy with the answer, the uncertainty about everything, Milt grimaced. "But he _will_ wake up," Hardcastle prompted, going to the bottom line.

"We think so, yes, eventually."

Rolling his eyes, he echoed in frustration, "Eventually?"

"Brain function is notoriously hard to predict. We just have to give him time. And keep stimulating him. Did you talk to him like I suggested yesterday?"

"Yeah, till I was nearly hoarse," Milt replied, losing the battle against discouragement. "I didn't see any reaction."

"No, you probably wouldn't. But that doesn't mean you're not helping him make connections, helping him to find his way back," Charlie encouraged.

"Okay, okay," Milt sighed, willing to buy into Charlie's theory. Not like he had anything else to hold onto. "So, I guess I keep talking, then, huh?"

"That's my prescription, yes," his friend replied, his smile widening. "I honestly think you're helping him."

His throat tightening, increasingly desperate to believe that was true, Milt rubbed his mouth and nodded.

o0o

Less than an hour after Charlie had left, the surgeon Milt vaguely remembered from the morning before came in with a nurse in tow. Rising from his chair, hoping the man was there to remove the tube from Mark's throat, he greeted, "Morning, Doctor, uh …"

"Reynolds," the surgeon provided. "You're looking a little more rested this morning, Mr. Hardcastle," he went on, his tone kind. "We need to ask you to leave for a few minutes."

"Uh, yeah, sure," Milt nodded, easing past them. "You, uh, gonna let him breathe on his own?" he asked as he lingered by the door.

"We're going to see how he does without the respirator, yes," Reynolds replied. "If he breathes without too much difficulty, then it won't be necessary to insert another tube."

"Good, good," Hardcastle murmured, and then frowned. "This isn't, uh, isn't goin' to hurt him, is it?"

"No. And he may be more comfortable with it gone. Give us fifteen minutes. Maybe go get some coffee."

Knowing he couldn't stall any longer, Milt waved and reluctantly moved away. Getting a cup of coffee was probably a good idea.

When he returned after exactly fifteen minutes, he was vastly encouraged to find Mark breathing on his own, the ventilator gone. Not only that, but someone had shaved the kid and, though he was still too pale and haggard, he looked a lot more like himself. And a whole lot _less_ like he was at death's door.

"Hey, look at you," he said with more honest cheerfulness than he'd felt since he'd watched Mark be shot, "you're breathing just fine! That's great, McCormick. Just great!" When he reached the bed, he clasped Mark's hand and gripped his shoulder. "'S probably a good thing that you didn't wake up with that thing in your throat. Would'a driven you crazy to not be able to talk, right?"

And then, just for the briefest moment, he thought he felt Mark's fingers twitch, and he held his breath, hoping … hoping …

But there was nothing more, and he thought he must've imagined it. Disappointment surged, sharply, made worse by the hope he'd felt so keenly, and he took a shuddering breath to clamp down on his urge to rage or weep. He patted Mark's shoulder, giving the consolation there was no one there to give him, and let the breath out slowly. Telling himself to buck up, he again forced cheerfulness into his voice as he said, "Okay, uh, so, yesterday, I was talking about fishing, right? Well, I thought of a few more great stories to tell ya. An'… and I thought I'd start explaining the principles of fishing, and some of the basics. You know, to give you an idea of what to expect."

He rambled on and on, finding it harder and harder to think of what to talk about. When Frank appeared in the doorway, he was grateful for the distraction and waved the lieutenant in.

"I see the tube is gone," Frank observed.

"Yeah, yeah. He's coming along," Milt replied, being as positive as he could manage. "What brings you down here?"

"I thought you – and McCormick, when he wakes up," Frank said, also evidently determined to be positive, "would want to know we got the results back from ballistics. None of the bullets from Mark's weapon killed anyone, Milt. There're some that won't be able to hold a weapon again because of the damage to their wrists or hands, but that's not a bad thing. This kid must be something of a marksman, huh?"

"Well, he's pretty good on the range," Milt admitted with a sideways look and a shrug, knowing he'd been stretching things to allow McCormick to handle weapons.

Frank just nodded blandly. "Well, given the trouble you can get yourself into, that's probably a good thing," he allowed.

Milt gave him a sharp look, and then smiled, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Yeah, well, that's what I thought, too." Glancing at Mark, he went on, "I think he'll be glad to know that he didn't kill anyone; this kid's not a killer, Frank. Thanks for comin' to let us know."

Frank had barely left when he heard a familiar voice regaling one of the staff, insisting he was a really good friend, "kinda like a brother," and promising not to stay too long, but he just _had_ to see Mark. Just _had _to.

Milt stuck his head out the door to hail the nurse down the hall who was currently guarding the entrance to the unit, ensuring only family was allowed inside. "It's okay," he called. "Mark would want to see him." Well, it was only fair – they'd let him in, and he wasn't family, either. His lips thinned at the exuberant balloons but when McCormick woke up, he'd probably get a kick out of them. Kids. The pair of them were just like kids. Maybe, given they'd not had much chance to really be kids, that shouldn't be so surprising.

"Hey, Teddy," he said, waving the young man forward.

"Judge!" Teddy exclaimed. "Hey, thanks for getting me in. I read about what happened in the paper and they said Mark was shot! He's okay, right?"

Meeting Teddy in the hallway, Milt moved close and laid a steadying hand on his back. "Mark's hurt pretty bad, Teddy. Three bullet wounds, one that knocked out a lung and another that clipped his head pretty hard. He's doing okay, considering. But he hasn't woken up yet."

Teddy's eyes grew wide as saucers and he looked absolutely stricken. "Oh, no," he whispered and swallowed hard. "Can I see him?" he asked. "I'll … I'll be quiet and everything. You know, not disturb him. But I'd really like to see him, Judge. Just for a minute."

"Sure, Teddy, you can see him, and you can talk to him, too. The doctor thinks it's good for him to hear people talkin'."

Brightening, Teddy assured him, "Well, I can do that. I'm pretty good at talking. And, hey, if it helps Mark, I'll talk until the cows come home."

Unable to restrain his grin and low chuckle at the eagerness, the child-like innocence and fervent desire to help McCormick, understanding Teddy's impulse completely, Milt guided Mark's former cell-mate into the room. But as soon as Teddy saw McCormick, he stopped dead. "Oh … Skid," he sighed, sounding devastated. Looking anxiously at Milt, he went on in a hoarse whisper, "Judge, he looks …"

"Better than he did yesterday, or even this morning," Milt cut in quickly. Though he wasn't convinced Mark had a clue of what was going on around him, he wasn't about to have the kid hear he looked a wreck, just in case.

Teddy swallowed hard, and approached the bed. "Hey, Mark," he ventured. "I, uh, I brought you some balloons, you know – to cheer you up. I hope you'll like them. And, hey, they wrote some neat stuff about you in the paper. Said you were 'instrumental in the capture of dangerous felons' and that you helped stop 'the manufacture of illegal drugs that would have wreaked havoc on our streets.' Well, you know how newspapers are, always exaggerating stuff, I guess. But it sounds like you did good, Mark. Real good. But, um, but I'm really sorry you got hurt so bad. The Judge, though, he says you're doing better, and he wouldn't lie, so … so you must be getting better, right? You just got to rest, I guess, and get well. Oh, hey, I've been meaning to tell you about a new idea I had! Coffee-flavored milk! Isn't that brilliant? Everybody loves coffee and milk is good for you, and it's too hot here most of the time to really want to drink something hot, but something icy that tasted like coffee – man, I just know that would be a million-seller! And I had another idea, too …."

Milt smiled and shook his head as he listened to Teddy rattle on. He had to give the kid full marks for enthusiasm. But … cold coffee? Grimacing at the thought of it, he shook his head. He really didn't think that idea had much of a chance.

o0o

_Balloons? Icy coffee? What? _Didn't make any sense. But as the words rambled on, he caught the tone and the drift. _Ah, Teddy._ He relaxed and just let the voice wash over him, finding it oddly comforting. Not like Hardcase, who made him feel safe, but nice, just the same. The pieces were starting to come together for him. The pain was still bad, real bad, but … it wasn't scary anymore. He knew he was in a hospital. Knew he was being looked after. His throat didn't hurt as bad and he wasn't gagged anymore, which was better. Much better. The fog was still there, but didn't seem as dark or threatening. He still couldn't remember much, but he did recall that he'd been doing something for Hardcastle that had involved the Dragons. For now, that was enough.

He was glad Teddy had come to see him. Was real nice. Thoughtful.

But … balloons? _Teddy's such a kid,_ he thought and then stopped thinking for a while, content to let the sound of his friend's cheerful voice surround him.

o0o

Milt was talking about why he believed so strongly in the law, why it was important to respect old Lady Justice, and do things the right way, that the law was the foundation of freedom … when he looked up and saw McCormick gazing at him. Or at least, in his direction. The blue eyes weren't quite focusing but – he realized he was gaping, stunned into silence, frozen. Overwhelmed. Afraid of the lack of focus; afraid Mark wasn't really aware. But this had to be a good thing. A wonderful thing!

He jumped up and grabbed Mark's hand. Leaning over, he asked, hope and relief tangling in his voice, "McCormick? Hey, kid, you starting to come out of it?"

"J-Judge?" Mark rasped, his fingers twitching weakly.

"Yeah, yeah, it's me, kiddo," Milt replied, low and gentle as he placed his palm on Mark's brow. "I'm right here."

Mark swallowed heavily and, frowning with effort, he blinked, his gaze drifting then coming back to Hardcastle's face, more focused and definitely aware. "H-hurts …" he whispered, and closed his eyes.

"I know," Milt murmured. "I'll just go get a nurse, see if she can give you something for the pain. I'll be right back, McCormick. Right back."

"'Kay," Mark sighed, his voice little more than a breath of air.

Milt straightened and swiped at his eyes. Sniffing, he hurried out of the room. "Hey!" he called to the first nurse he saw. "McCormick's awake! He's awake! An' he needs something for the pain."

The nurse's bright smile at the good news was almost his undoing. He had to turn away and cover his mouth with his hand as he struggled to swallow the lump that risen in his throat. His eyes burned and he was shaking so bad he had to lean his shoulder against the wall. He'd been so afraid. Hadn't wanted to admit even to himself how afraid he was that the kid wouldn't wake up. Ever since he'd seen McCormick crumple to the ground and knew the kid was hurt bad, he'd been scared Mark might not make it.

But he was awake. And conscious – Mark had recognized him. He was going to be okay. He was really going to be okay.

And that soft, nearly soundless, 'kay' – like the kid trusted him to take care of things. And to be right back, like he said he would.

He was surprised at how much that small sign of unquestioning trust meant to him.

The nurse touched his arm for a moment before she breezed past into the room. He could hear her calling to Mark, and his pained response. Pulling himself together, he followed her. "Are you going to give him something?" he demanded, not at all pleased that she was bothering Mark, making him wait for relief.

"Soon," she replied. "First I have to call Dr. Friedman, and let him know his patient is awake."

Seriously not happy about that, he clamped his jaw tight to keep from yelling at her. Of course she had to call Charlie. He gave her a rigid nod, then took her place by the bed when she hurried away.

Taking Mark's hand, he soothed, "Won't be long, kid. Just hold on a little longer."

Mark's hand curled in his and did just that. He held on.

Milt briefly clasped Mark's hand with both of his own, before lifting a hand to grip Mark's shoulder. "I've got you, kiddo," he crooned. "You're gonna be okay, Mark. You're gonna be just fine."

Closing his eyes, able to believe now that his words were true, he offered up a prayer of fervent gratitude.

And, hoping the nurse wouldn't make the kid wait and suffer much longer, he held on, too.

o0o

For the next two days, Mark slept more than he was awake, finally really resting now that he wasn't grappling with the fog and confusion. The persistent throbbing in his head gradually eased and disappeared, taking the awful pain in his leg with it. The leg still ached, but not nearly as badly. The damned horse finally got off his chest, allowing him to breathe without every respiration feeling as if he was ripping a lung out. And he had to admit, whatever Dr. Friedman had ordered to help him manage the pain was really great stuff; left him feeling like he was flying before it put him out like a light.

Whenever he was awake, or most times it seemed, Hardcastle was right there, asking if he needed anything, supporting his head to help him drink water that was perpetually cool and fresh, checking to see if he was in pain. Mark was grateful, very grateful, but he was also confused; he couldn't figure out why Hardcase was being so nice to him. And, the more he became aware of everything, he couldn't help noticing that the Judge looked … really tired. Almost perpetually cheerful, sure – which was also extremely weird – but under the grins and helpfulness, he could see the man was exhausted.

Mark hadn't yet asked what had happened – and Hardcastle hadn't told him anything. Though he had some jumbled memories of the Dragons and Mickey Di Angelo, and some even more confused bits of half-dreams that didn't make much sense, he had no real memory of how or why he'd been shot. But he was more than a little reluctant to ask because, in truth, Hardcastle's distinctly strange behaviour was making him increasingly nervous. There hadn't been one snarl, one snipe, one insult or even any rolling of the eyes or a single yell since he'd awakened the other day. And that wasn't like Hardcase. Not like him at all.

Mark was beginning to wonder if something really bad had happened. Something terrible. Something he didn't even want to try to imagine. Had he screwed-up his assignment so badly that he'd gotten himself shot? 'Cause Hardcase would probably feel badly about that; about sending him to do something he obviously couldn't handle. And he had a disturbing feeling that, maybe, other people had gotten hurt, too. Was that also his fault? Was he in trouble for what he'd been doing or what he'd done that he couldn't remember? Or … or maybe Hardcase had decided he wasn't good enough to keep up his end of their deal, and was planning on sending him back to Quentin, but felt bad about telling him that when he was laid up in the hospital.

He knew he had to find out, that he couldn't keep putting it off. But for those two days, at least, it was just easier to lose himself in sleep, like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand. If he didn't know, didn't see the danger or threat, then he could pretend it wasn't there.

But, eventually, as he got stronger, he couldn't continue to just bury his face in the pillow. Whatever it was, whatever he'd done or hadn't done, whatever was going to happen next, he needed to face it. Even having decided that, he still procrastinated, rationalizing that he wanted to be able to hold his own when the Judge laid it on him. He was getting better, but staying awake was still a challenge, and he knew he wasn't firing on all cylinders. Most of all, when he got the bad news and maybe, maybe heard it was all over and he was being shipped off to the House with Many Doors, he didn't want to lose it. Didn't want to humiliate himself by begging for another chance. He wanted to be able to fight for himself, and point out that it was pretty sleazy to send him to prison for repossessing a car from a murderer, in order to return it to its rightful owner. He didn't think he'd get far – hell, he was sent up for stealing his own car – but he … he needed to be able to make a stand. Not just … not just lay here and be completely destroyed. Because it would kill him to go back there. Better he should have died than have to face that. No, he could wait a little longer before he had to hear something like that.

But when Hardcase arrived around mid-morning, fairly bubbling over with the news that he'd talked to Barbara Johnson and she had sent her regards, Mark couldn't believe his ears. Flabbergasted, he leaned back into the support of the half-raised bed.

"Barbara – but she's back east! How did she find out?" he exclaimed, though it came out more as a rough, hoarse whisper.

"Well, I didn't want her finding out like Teddy did – from the newspapers – so I called her the other day and told her what happened, to let her know that you going to be okay," Hardcastle explained. "She phoned this morning, just to see how you were and to tell you to listen to the doctors and do what they tell you." Settling into the chair, he added sheepishly, "She wasn't very happy about you being on your own down there. Gave me a hard time about that. But, when she heard what happened, well, she said she wasn't surprised, that it was just what she'd expect – which kinda surprised me. I don't mean nothin' bad about that, just that –"

Mark couldn't stand it any longer. Just couldn't. He had to know and cut in, "Judge, what did happen?"

"Huh? Whaddya mean, what happened?" Hardcastle asked, looking confused.

"I mean, what happened? How did I get shot?" Mark braced himself, fisted his hands and kept his face as expressionless as he could make it.

"You don't remember?" Hardcastle demanded, sounding uneasy.

Mark shook his head slowly. "No, no, I don't." The Judge's gaze dropped and he turned away, which only worried Mark even more. Oh, this didn't look good at all. "I'm sorry, Judge," he added very softly. "Guess I screwed-up pretty bad, huh?"

"Sorry? Screwed-up?" the Judge echoed, and shook his head. "I don't know, kid. Maybe we should wait until you give your statement to the cops. I don't want to compromise what you'd say."

"Judge, please – I need to know."

Hardcastle gave him a quick look, but still he seemed to hesitate. When he spoke again, he was subdued, his voice low and not quite steady. "Do you remember anything at all?"

Watching him, wishing Hardcase would just get to the point, already, Mark sighed as he replied, "Okay, well, I remember I was down in Hollywood to watch the Dragons and see if I could figure out where the drug lab was. And I remember getting a room at the Palace and, well, making contact with them pretty fast. I called you, twice, right?" When Hardcastle nodded, he went on, wishing he sounded stronger, not so breathless and fragile, "And I remember being scared. I finally realized that there was no good reason for Di Angelo to leave me alive after he'd found out what I knew. They were watching me by then, and I couldn't just make a run for it. Not without blowing the whole thing, so I was going to try to bluff it out."

Pausing, Mark frowned as he tried to recall the rest. "It gets pretty hazy after that. I sorta remember meeting with Di Angelo and I think he was pretending to buy my story – but I wasn't sure if he was just playing me; letting me think I'd be walking away when he planned to, well, get rid of me. And … and I've got this dim impression that you were there – and hey, no shots about the 'dim' part, okay?" he interjected defensively. "I know I'm not up to speed here."

When Hardcastle _still_ didn't respond, he said uncertainly, "And that's … that's it. There's some other stuff, but it's all mixed up and doesn't make much sense; I think it might just be dreams or something. Not real." His voice petered out, and he felt like he'd run twenty miles, his breath tight in his chest, his heart racing. Why wouldn't Hardcase look at him? "So, is that what happened? I messed up so bad that Mickey or one of his goons shot me, but you came to the rescue and hauled me outta there?"

The Judge blew a long breath and shifted in his chair to face Mark straight on. "You didn't screw-up, not like you seem to think you did, McCormick," he began, lifting haunted eyes to meet Mark's gaze. "When I got your call, it took me a few minutes to figure out what you were trying to tell me," he went on, his pace measured and his voice low, constrained, "an' then I called Frank Harper, to tell him I was going down there and needed backup. I got there before the cavalry. I didn't know how much time you might have, so I pushed pretty hard to create a distraction. Started asking around for you, sayin' a snitch had tipped me off. You know, like we agreed, 'cause I really wasn't sure if I was helping or making things worse by hotfooting it after you." He waited until Mark nodded, and then went on. "Anyway, didn't take long for a couple of Dragons to come down on me. You're right. I was there. From what I could see, you were handling Di Angelo just fine – you, uh, you sure had me convinced, anyway."

"What do you mean?" Mark interjected softly.

His lips twisting, Hardcastle shrugged, his eyes again shifting away. "I mean, for a minute there, I thought … well, I thought you might have switched teams."

"Judge, I wouldn't –" Mark exclaimed, horrified. God, did Hardcastle think that little of him?

Lifting his hands, Milt cut in reassuringly, "I know that, McCormick. Believe me, I know that." He swallowed hard and then took a deep breath. "Anyway, you conned Di Angelo into thinking you'd kill me, an' he gave you his gun. You had me walk toward the dumpsters, as if you were going to make me climb in or something, maybe make them think that you were saying I was garbage. Whatever. You got us out from bein' surrounded by them and … and when we were as far away as we were going to get, you put your hand in the middle of my back, gave me a little shove, and yelled at me to run." He hesitated and flicked a look at Mark. "And that's when it got a little hairy. Y'see, I thought you were running right behind me, so's we'd both take cover in the alley. But when I decided there was no way we'd get that far before they gunned us down, I slid in behind the last dumpster, to use it for cover until the cops arrived. And … and that's when I realized you weren't with me."

_Vastly_ relieved that he didn't seem to have done something incredibly stupid after all, Mark was enthralled by the story he was hearing. His hands unclenched and he sagged a bit against the pillows. It was okay. Really okay. He hadn't screwed-up after all.

Straightening his shoulders, Hardcastle met his gaze and held it. "You were still back there, and you'd turned to level the gun on them. You were … were standing between me and them, giving me time to get away." His voice rose with remembered fear as he continued, "It was the stupidest, damn-fool stunt I've ever seen! How the hell you expected to hold off more than a dozen –"

"Stupid!" Mark squeaked, stunned by Hardcastle's ire, not understanding it. "What? I should have just let them kill you?"

"No, of course not, don't be an idiot, McCormick," Hardcase growled, and then shouted, "No, you were _supposed_ to run _with_ me. Not … not sacrifice your own life like that! You damned near got yourself killed! Scared the hell outta me!"

"Maybe I didn't think we could both get away," Mark offered, his own gaze skittering to the side. Those things he'd heard, that he'd thought were just dreams, about being brave and noble, and a good man, maybe they hadn't been dreams after all. His throat tightened at the thought that the Judge might have really said all that about him. But … no. No, he really couldn't believe any of that had been real.

"That's not the point," Milt argued. "The point is, we're supposed to be a team. There's only two of us to go after the bad guys, McCormick, so we can't afford any attrition here. When we're outgunned and outnumbered, we run – _both_ of us. That's the only sensible thing to do."

"So, I just stood there and let them shoot me?" Mark probed with a frown as he struggled to envision what had gone down. "Now _that_ sounds stupid."

"No, you shot back. Probably emptied the clip, or came close," Milt told him, no longer shouting. Just sounding tired and shaken. "Before … before you went down."

Mark went still inside. He'd shot … emptied a clip? Didn't sound like he'd had much choice, well, no choice, but … "Did I kill anyone?" he asked hollowly, afraid to hear the answer but needing to know.

"No. You wounded quite a few, but they'll all live."

Closing his eyes, Mark let out a long, slow breath. He knew it was crazy, that those guys would have killed them in a heartbeat, but he would have felt really bad if he'd taken away another person's life. Not to mention that the Parole Board wouldn't have been all that thrilled about it, either. Bad enough that he'd shot someone … several 'someones' from the sound of it. Just how bad would that be? Would they pull his ticket? Send him back to prison? God … oh, God, he hoped not.

Startled by the hand gripping his shoulder, he looked up at the Judge, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He felt utterly spent, as if all his energy had been sucked away.

"You saved my life, McCormick, at clear risk to your own," Hardcastle said solemnly. "An' I'm not about to forget that anytime soon. Just … just don't do anything like that again."

Deeply touched by the emotion apparent in the Judge's voice and eyes, but also badly disconcerted, needing the comfort of the familiar, Mark tried to rally and gave him a crooked smile. "I know, the paperwork would be a bitch, huh?"

"Paperwork?" The Judge's answering grin looked equally feeble. "The Parole Board would have my ass in a sling. They'd never trust me with another ex-con if they thought I was usin' ya for a shield." He sighed, the rough attempts at humor and bluster bleeding from his face. "Look, we're gonna have to talk about this some more," he said, sounding as awkward and uncomfortable as Mark felt, "but I can see you're about done in. Why don't you try to sleep for a while? You need anything?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Mark murmured, understanding now why Hardcastle had been so solicitous for days, and wondering if the care lavished upon him was motivated by guilt as much as gratitude. He hoped it wasn't guilt; nor did the gratitude feel right. Though he couldn't remember what he'd been thinking at the time, he was pretty sure he understood his own actions that night; if only _one_ of them could get away, then … then that one _had _to be Hardcase, 'cause his life _mattered_. It was as simple as that. He appreciated how hard the Judge was trying to make it clear that such a sacrifice wasn't expected, and certainly not wanted. But he was sure he hadn't acted out of bravery, just out of … what had made sense to him at the time, in what must've been a pretty tense situation.

Uncomfortable with the role of hero that Hardcastle seemed to be according him despite the gruff scolding, Mark hesitated as he cast his eyes down and away. God knew, he was no hero – just a guy who tried to do his best. But he had to say something to acknowledge the gift Hardcase had given him, the gift of seeing himself through the Judge's eyes; for seeing that Hardcastle thought he was a better man than he was. And for … for conveying in his own irascible way that Mark's life mattered, too. "Thanks for telling me what happened, Hardcase."

Milt shrugged. "Go to sleep, kid."

Mark nodded and obligingly closed his eyes, though he didn't think he'd be able to sleep. Too much to think about. But, as Hardcastle lowered the head of the bed to make him more comfortable, exhausted, he sank like a stone into oblivion.

o0o

Milt chewed on his lip as he watched McCormick sleep, and thought about what the kid had said. Somehow, it had never occurred to him that Mark wouldn't have remembered the last harrowing minutes of their confrontation with the Dragons. He couldn't decide if that was for the best or not. Certainly, he was glad McCormick didn't remember the experience of being shot down, or of standing there in the firefight, knowing that he was going to be killed. But … it didn't seem right, somehow, that the kid also wouldn't remember the courage he'd shown under fire.

_Maybe I didn't think we could both get away._

And that was the bottom line, wasn't it; the pivotal judgment that probably had governed McCormick's actions that night. He hadn't thought they could both escape. Fair enough. It had been a bad situation. They were damned lucky to have both survived.

But … why had McCormick made the choice he had? Why hadn't he tried to save his own life? He could run faster – he might have made it to the alley before they started shooting.

Bowing his head, Hardcastle found it both humbling and disturbing to know Mark had deliberately, consciously chosen to save _his_ life and, from the way he'd offered the rational for his actions – as if that explained them – Milt realized that McCormick thought his choice had made sense. That was worrying. Because it meant that Mark might do the same thing again someday, and Milt didn't want that. Didn't ever want that.

It also meant that, for whatever reason, Mark had decided that his life wasn't worth as much. And that was just plain unacceptable.

"This isn't over, McCormick," he muttered, lifting his gaze to study Mark's face. "You need some serious attitude adjustment."

But, as he sat there quietly, listening to Mark breathe on his own, noting the signs of healthy color in his cheeks – when it could have all turned out so differently and so very much worse – he couldn't help but smile to himself. "The good thing is, kiddo, we got lots of time, and we're only just getting started."

_Finis_


End file.
